


A Gentle Deceit

by purewanderlust



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Armageddon, Asexual Relationship, Canon Non-Binary Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), First Kiss, Flashbacks, Forgiveness, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Genderqueer Character, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Binary Warlock Dowling, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Secrets, Temporary Amnesia, Trans Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22639159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: All's well that ends well, but unfortunately for Aziraphale and Crowley the truncated Armageddon is not the end. After only a few years of peace, Gabriel comes to let them know that the world is ending...again. A second shot at the apocalypse and an angel’s six-thousand year old secret threatens to ruin their happy ending--this time, for good.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 153
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Ho-lee-shit, it's done! This fic started off as a single scene pictured in my mind and spiraled out of control into a long-form exploration of my two favorite characters of all time. I wanted a oneshot and I got ten chapters. The final of which were written on a smartphone in the back of a car traveling through Nebraska for work--at two in the morning; this is not an exaggeration. It was an absolutely exhausting joy to write, and I could not have done it without these people:
> 
> First and foremost, [Saer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaerM/pseuds/SaerM) who was, without exaggeration, the best beta I have ever had. They made my writing so much better and more coherent, even going above and beyond to beta five thousand words that were written in the last twenty-four hours before the deadline. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> Also to [Soul](https://soultheta.tumblr.com/), my artist who provided the gorgeous banner below and the art of Aziraphale and Crowley at Mount Nebo that you'll see in chapter seven. Their use of color and shadow is really heart-stoppingly beautiful. I'm thrilled that they've chosen to put their art to my words.
> 
> To [Solshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solshine/pseuds/Solshine), a fellow banger and friend who offered word wars, plot advice, and much-needed encouragement. Her suggestions helped make what I think is the funniest chapter of this fic even more entertaining. Go check out her wonderful Adam/Warlock romcom in the collection!
> 
> And, of course to [the mods](https://goodomensbigbang.tumblr.com/mods), for putting this together in what has arguably been the fandom's biggest year since the initial release of the novel. I live in awe of the people who manage and organize hundreds of strangers online to create beautiful new works for us to enjoy. Thank you for the hours you poured into this project!
> 
> I'm very proud of this fic and I have so much more to say about it, so if you find that you enjoy it, consider leaving a comment! I put a few notes at the end of chapters that required research, because I'm a nerd. They're very self-indulgent, but I think the information therein is interesting, so find me on Tumblr at [purewanderlust](https://purewanderlust.tumblr.com) if you wanna talk shop. Thank you so much for reading!

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/63905916@N03/49512890281/in/dateposted-public/)  


It is fairly common knowledge among humans that Heaven and Hell come from the same stock. Most people don't like to think about it too much, but the fact remains. Demons were once angels. This is upsetting for many reasons, not the least of which being  _ if something so holy could be changed into something so damned, then really, what hope does mankind have of salvation?  _ It's the kind of existential thinking that prompts heavy drinking, impulsive behavior, or the most human of all reactions: deciding to never think about it again, unless it should become an immediate and pressing problem.

Angels, as a general rule, are no good at existential thinking. It is not in their nature to question God’s ineffable will. Some might suggest the very concept of existentialism was imagined by the Lightbringer himself. Thus, upon its invention, Lucifer ceased to be counted among angels.

It was not a pleasant day. Time hadn't been invented yet, so technically it wasn't a day at all, but for our purposes the word will do. There was war in Heaven, a third of the angels turned against their ethereal siblings by Lucifer's clever words. The rebellion was quashed by Michael's forces and the survivors were brought to Heaven's Throne for judgement. In this blindingly white void, Lucifer stood at the foot of a massive dais. Long brass-gold hair wreathed his face, flickering like wildfire despite the stillness of the air. He was not ready to concede, and he sneered, bright eyes shining with uncontained fury. Behind their chosen leader, the assembled rebels watched the confrontation in bated silence.

"You plan to create humanity in Your image, and to give them free will," he cried, "but we--Your own children--are denied the same luxury!"

"All my children are free to make their own choices."

Another angel stepped forward, shoulder-to-shoulder with the Morningstar. "But how can that be true if only one of those choices is without consequences?" The angel looked up with plaintive golden eyes, sincere in their question. "Can it really be considered free will if we live in fear of utilizing it?"

Lucifer smirked, interpreting silence as capitulation. "Have you nothing to say, Mother?"

Divine Wrath is a funny thing. I do not pretend to be above anger. But Divine Wrath and, consequently, Divine Retribution, is delivered with the knowledge that it is for the best, even if it doesn't seem that way. God's Plan is not meant to be understood, at least not until it is seen through to the end. What may at first glance appear cruel is often part of a larger design.

Beneath the rebellious angels' feet, the ground began to shake. It crumbled away like the eroded stone of a seaside cliff. The angel with the golden eyes was the first to Fall, shock giving way to fear as they realized what was happening. 

The rest followed; scores of angels plummeting down, fiery comets screaming towards the Bottomless Pit before they could even blink.

Lucifer alone remained, on the edge of the precipice. His wings quivered, though whether in fear or rage, it was impossible to tell.

"Have you nothing to say, my son?"

Then Lucifer, the Morningstar, the most beautiful of all the heavenly host, Fell from Grace. His terrified, hate-filled howls echoed through the corridors of heaven long after, a warning that those who bore witness would never forget.


	2. Two Days After the World was Supposed to End, Soho

The day after the nightingale sang, Crowley burst into the bookshop at half past two in the afternoon. It had been less than twelve hours since he had departed, mumbling about watering his plants, and Aziraphale was rather surprised to see him awake already. He set his book aside. 

“I thought you said you were going to sleep for a year,” he quipped.

“Care for a drive?” Crowley said at the same time.

Aziraphale blinked. “I beg your pardon?” 

Crowley squirmed a little under his gaze. He seemed agitated, pacing the room like a caged tiger. Abruptly, he stopped and turned to face the angel.

“I’m going for a drive,” he repeated, a ghost of his normal smirk flitting briefly across his expression and vanishing. Then, with less confidence: “Care to join me?”

“Of course, dear boy,” answered Aziraphale, bemused. “Where are we going?”

“Dunno yet.” Crowley said over his shoulder, already striding out of the bookshop at a brisk pace. “Figure we’ll see where the road takes us.” 

“Sounds like a lovely way to spend an afternoon,” replied Aziraphale affably. Crowley shot him a suspicious look at his easy agreement, but said nothing as the angel slid into the Bentley’s passenger seat. He turned the key in the ignition and they were on their way.

They drove south, the bustle of London giving way to smaller neighborhoods, and then eventually rolling countryside. It was quiet inside the car, save for the music crooning softly from the stereo.

_ Ooh, let me feel your heartbeat grow faster, faster. _

“What are we listening to?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley didn’t seem inclined to conversation, but the silence in the car felt expectant in a way that made the angel nervous.

“Hm?” Crowley glanced over at him like he was surprised to see him there. “Oh. It was Vivaldi once, I think.’”

They lapsed into silence again. Crowley’s shoulders were a tense line and there was a muscle ticking in his jaw, so Aziraphale gave up his attempts at conversation. Whatever was bothering him, he would bring it up when he was ready. In the meantime, Aziraphale gazed out the window instead. The countryside was really quite beautiful, especially with the supernaturally nice weather that was still lingering. Aziraphale was sure Adam would have to settle down soon enough, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it while it lasted. 

It wasn’t a long drive, all told, and after about half an hour, Aziraphale successfully started a lively conversation about the merits of musical theatre. Mercurial as always, Crowley had relaxed and was giving a passionate treatise on jukebox musicals.

"If it tells a story through song, it's a musical," he said firmly. "Or an opera. Or an operetta. Whatever. The point is, it's elitist to dismiss an entire production just because original songs weren't written for it!"

"But all they did was arrange existing music and write a story around it," protested Aziraphale. "Terribly lazy, anyone could do it."

Crowley shot him an incredulous look. "Bold statement, considering you can't even name three modern bands."

"I certainly can!" Aziraphale argued. Instantly, Crowley's yellow eyes were fixed on him over the top of his sunglasses. There was an amused smirk curling at the corner of his lips.

"Prove it."

"Well, ah. That is to say…" Aziraphale blustered for a minute. "Queen!"

"Ignoring that they aren't exactly modern by human standards…" Crowley mused. "Go on."

"The Velveteen Underground?"

" _ Velvet,  _ angel, good Lo--grief!"

"Close enough." Aziraphale said loftily.

"You've got one more, yet."

Aziraphale frowned. "Blast it all, what's the name of that Swedish group...ABBA, yes!"

"ABBA." Crowley deadpanned. "The band on which arguably the most famous jukebox musical of all time is based?"

"Oh, bugger."

Crowley shook his head, expression fond. "And none of those bands have had new albums in the past thirty years, anyway. You're ridiculous!"

Aziraphale bit back a smile. Crowley may have been mocking him, but that meant he wasn't radiating anxiety anymore. A distinct improvement, as far as the angel was concerned.

"Of course, dear boy," he replied serenely. "Whatever you say."

A sign flashed past the window announcing that they had entered the South Downs National Park. Aziraphale turned a questioning look to his right and found that Crowley had tensed up again.

"Is everything alright, my dear?" 

"Hnng," said Crowley. 

"Crowley?"

"Just a mo', angel, I need to find the turnoff," he muttered distractedly. Seconds later, the Bentley jerked sharply to the right. Aziraphale clutched at the door, heart flying to his throat.

Thankfully, they only rumbled about another thirty feet down the gravel road before lurching to a stop. By the time Aziraphale recovered, Crowley had already scrambled out of the car, swaggered around the front of the bonnet, and yanked open the passenger-side door.

"Coming, angel?"

Aziraphale stared at him in some surprise. Back when cars were new, it was the done thing to go around and open the door for your rider, but it had been well over five decades since Crowley had done anything of the sort. Yet here he stood, watching Aziraphale expectantly, tension radiating through every inch of his posture. Once again, the angel chose mercy.

"Lay on, Macduff."

Crowley snorted and turned to walk away. As he typically did, Aziraphale followed, catching up and falling into step beside him. The demon gestured to a worn footpath winding off the road, leading into the trees.

They walked in silence for a few moments before the angel suddenly noticed a wicker basket dangling from the crook of Crowley's right elbow. He frowned. "Whatever is the basket for, my dear?"

"We're having a picnic," answered Crowley in the most nonchalant voice possible. He glanced furtively over at the angel, then looked away again. "I mean...if you like?"

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks, his long memory taking him back to the Bentley, to Soho, on a chilly, neon-lit night over fifty years ago. This was not, he realized, a perfunctory outing. His unnecessary heart fluttered in his chest.

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Crowley said when he didn’t immediately respond. “It’s not a big deal or anything.” He stopped walking too, but didn’t turn around. Aziraphale could hear something horribly resigned in his voice. “I just figured, with the nice weather and all--”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted and he stopped talking immediately. “Of course I would love to have a picnic with you, dearest.” In a fit of bravery, he reached out and grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together.

Crowley made a strangled noise. His fingers spasmed, but he didn't let go. “Ssssssplendid,” he stammered. “Come on, then. We’re clossse.” He started forward down the path again, still clutching Aziraphale's hand.

They fell into step and into comfortable silence. Years of shared walks through gardens and parks made it feel as familiar as anything.

Well. Not entirely familiar, Aziraphale thought. He could feel Crowley's cool palm brushing against his warm one with every step they took, and the feel of Crowley's long slender fingers interlocked with his own, slightly pudgier set was entirely new. An odd warmth spread through his chest as he looked down at their clasped hands.

Suddenly, Crowley stopped moving and a distracted Aziraphale stumbled to a halt next to him.

Before them was a large, round clearing in the forest, a meadow full of soft grass and wildflowers. At the center of the clearing was a single olive tree. An invitingly-soft blanket was already spread beneath it, throw pillows scattered on top, as well as two bottles of wine perched in a chilling bucket.

"Oh, Crowley!" Aziraphale breathed. "It's lovely!"

The demon gave a disgruntled hiss, a red flush creeping over his ears, but he didn't let go of Aziraphale's hand. "Yeah, yeah, tell the whole world." 

They made their way to the olive tree and settled on the blanket. Crowley finally released Aziraphale in favor of unpacking the picnic basket. A paper bag full of brioche rolls, several small jars of jam, and a selection of cured meats came out first. Then a tin of oysters, a bowl of dates, and multiple different types of cheese. Every time Aziraphale thought it was finally empty, Crowley would pull another delicacy out of the supernaturally expanded basket.

He set a jug of sangria on the blanket and lifted a cheesecake out with a flourish before finally flipping the wicker lid closed. He stared for a moment at the spread, then glanced up at Aziraphale, a bit sheepish.

"I may have gotten carried away," he admitted. 

"Nonsense," the angel chided. "This is absolutely perfect."

Crowley blushed again, and ducked his head. Watching him, a wave of fondness nearly overwhelmed Aziraphale. He'd spent so many years suppressing the feeling that he found himself starting to pull away, almost unconsciously. But, he suddenly realized, he didn't have to do that anymore. They weren't beholden to Heaven and Hell any longer.

The rush of clarity left him giddy, like he'd just downed several glasses of champagne. Summoning another burst of courage, he laid his hand gently over Crowley's on the blanket. The flush deepened, and crept down the demon's neck.

"Would you like a glass of wine, darling?"

Crowley looked like he had swallowed his own tongue. He nodded weakly and Aziraphale turned to busy himself with the drinks. 

"And take off those glasses," he added, hoping the quiver in his voice wasn't too noticeable, "I want to see those beautiful eyes of yours."

There was no reply, but when he turned back around, drinks in hand, Crowley had his sunglasses clutched tightly in his fist and he was staring at Aziraphale with wide, yellow eyes.

"Gorgeous," he said, reveling in the freedom of saying what he wanted to, finally, for the first time. Crowley's eyes grew impossibly wide, color swallowing his sclera, and pupils flaring. When he reached out to take the proffered wine glass, his hand was trembling.

"Angel--" he choked out. 

Aziraphale raised a hand, silencing him. "I'm afraid I've done you a terrible disservice, dearest."

"No, I--I, it'sss not--"

"It  _ is _ ," Aziraphale insisted. "You've been waiting for me to catch up so patiently--"

"Patience is a  _ virtue _ , I'm not--"

"Darling, I'm trying to confess my love to you, would you stop pretending to be lacking in virtue?"

Crowley gaped at him and the angel realized, belatedly, what he'd said.

"Oh blast! I wanted to be more eloquent than this--"

He was cut off, quite suddenly, as Crowley loomed close, grabbing him and hauling him up to his knees. The demon's eyes were wild with poorly disguised hope.

"Angel, are you...do you really?"

Aziraphale could have answered the question, but it seemed much easier to just lean in and kiss him. Crowley hissed in surprise and then pressed forward, nearly tipping them over backwards. His mouth was warm and insistent against Aziraphale's, six thousand years of pent-up longing packed into one kiss. It felt so good that for a moment the angel didn't register the cold sensation spreading across the front of his trousers. When he finally did, he pulled away, ignoring Crowley's protesting noise.

"You've spilled wine on my new trousers!"

The demon miracled away the spill and both of their wine glasses with a growl and grabbed Aziraphale's lapels, pulling him forward again.

The angel went willingly. He was beginning to think he might be happy to keep kissing Crowley for the rest of eternity. How could he have denied them both this for so long?

After a few minutes, Crowley released him, rocking back on his toes. His golden eyes were shining as he stared unblinkingly at the angel. A wave of love so strong it made his knees buckle washed over Aziraphale. He couldn't believe he was worthy of such devotion.

"I, uh, I love you too, angel. Have done forever. If you didn't already know."

Aziraphale took his hand and kissed his knuckles. "I did. I'm sorry for making you wait so long."

Crowley flushed brilliantly. "I think I can probably forgive you...if this is going to be the new status quo."

The angel smiled and nestled in closer, leaning against his shoulder.

"I think that can be arranged."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [South Downs National Park](https://www.southdowns.gov.uk/) was established in 2011, but since this fic is a fusion of book and series canon, I went with the series timeline.


	3. Eight Years After the World was Supposed to End, South Downs

In a cottage in the South Downs, an angel and a demon were having tea. 

It was a cozy autumn morning, and a light rain was drumming on the roof. Aziraphale took a sip of cocoa and set the mug back on the side table. He turned a page in his book and dropped his free hand back into Crowley’s hair, earning a pleased hiss in response.

The demon was sprawled across the sofa with his head in Aziraphale’s lap. His cup sat forgotten on the floor, tea long since gone cold. He bumped his head lightly against the angel’s hand, grinning like he’d gotten away with something when Aziraphale began running his fingers obligingly through Crowley’s hair. Aziraphale hid his own smile behind his book, feeling happy and at peace with his demon close to his side. 

A chime broke the silence, followed by the smell of ozone, heralding a celestial arrival. Crowley went tense and sat bolt upright, knocking the book from Aziraphale’s hands just as the archangel Gabriel appeared in the middle of their living room. 

“Get out,” the demon snarled, every inch of his posture radiating hostility. His pupils were the barest slits in his narrowed yellow eyes, and his teeth glinted as he bared them at the archangel. Dark scales manifested at his temples and on the backs of his hands, fingernails sharpening into something far more dangerous. He hadn't risen from his seat, but was watching Gabriel carefully, spine rigid and muscles taut, like a cobra about to strike.

Aziraphale took hold of his arm gently, concerned that he might actually launch himself at Gabriel. For reasons he’d never fully explained, Crowley had been far more aggressive about the other angels since they enacted their body-swapping plan several years ago. This was the first time one of their number had come to bother the pair in nearly a decade, but Crowley's rage was as fresh as if no time had passed at all.

Gabriel held up his hands, palms out in the universal gesture of supplication. “I am not here to fight.”

“Oh, so this is a ‘be not afraid’ kind of visit?” Crowley scoffed. “Yeah right.” 

“I come bearing a message,” Gabriel said, turning his violet eyes on Aziraphale. “That’s all.” His gaze flickered down to where Aziraphale’s hand was wrapped around the demon’s bicep and his lip curled.

Aziraphale sniffed, lifting his chin. “I’m afraid I’m not interested.”

Gabriel gave an exasperated sigh. “I’m aware that it’s been some time since you’ve... _ participated _ in your duties as a member of the celestial host, but I’m not here about that.” He glanced back at Crowley and gritted his teeth. “This message concerns both of you. May I  _ please _ deliver it?” 

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look. “Fine,” Aziraphale said shortly. “What is it you want?” 

“The Apocalypse is coming.”

“What, again?” Crowley groused. “You people never stop!” 

Gabriel ignored him. “Heaven and Hell are united, and we are declaring war on humanity. There will be no tricks this time, the end truly is nigh.” He frowned, his smooth forehead briefly furrowing in distaste. “I have...been instructed to extend to you the opportunity to join us.”

“Join you in destroying the Earth?” Aziraphale said blankly.

“Passssss,” hissed Crowley. 

Gabriel cocked his head, confusion evident on his face. “I don’t understand.” 

Crowley uncoiled from his position on the sofa, rising to his feet. He stepped forward until they were face-to-face, and Aziraphale saw the archangel’s heel lift as though he were resisting the urge to step backward. “We’re. Not. Interested.” 

“But you’ll be on the same side,” Gabriel insisted. He peered around the demon’s shoulder at Aziraphale. “You can continue to fraternize with this... _ creature _ . You’ve already defied us for him. This is an opportunity to be restored to Heaven's good graces without giving that up. Isn’t this what you wanted?”    


Aziraphale stood up as well, coming to stand at Crowley’s side. “What we wanted was for you to leave humanity alone. They’ve done nothing to deserve this level of judgment.” 

Gabriel drew himself up to his full height, his face thunderous. “Are you the Almighty, Aziraphale, to claim what judgment is appropriate for the humans?” 

“Certainly not,” Aziraphale huffed. His heart was in his throat, but he held firm. “But I will defend Her creation at all costs. You can consider us protectors of this planet and its inhabitants--we simply won’t allow you to bring this sort of destruction upon them.” 

Crowley grinned, all teeth. With mussed copper hair and defiance gleaming in his snake-like eyes, he looked positively incandescent. It took Aziraphale's breath away. “You heard him. Just call us guardian angels.” 

The archangel rounded on him, eyes alight with rancor. “Silence, demon! You lost that title long ago.”

For a split-second Crowley looked puzzled, but he quickly recovered his smirk. “Haven’t you heard? We don’t need Heaven or Hell to tell us who we are.” 

“I should smite you on the spot.” 

The demon’s eyes narrowed. “You can try.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, stepping between them. “That’s quite enough. Gabriel, if you have nothing else to impart, you ought to leave.” 

Gabriel gave him a dark look. “This is your last chance, Aziraphale.”

“And as I’ve already said, I am not interested. Now, you really must be on your way.” 

“We will win,” Gabriel said, all angelic confidence. “And when we do, you’ll receive no mercy.”

“I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see, hmm?” answered Aziraphale lightly. 

“Get out of our house,” Crowley growled. 

The archangel gave them one last disgusted look and, without another word, he was gone. 

“Fucking wanker,” muttered Crowley. 

“Indeed!” Aziraphale agreed without even thinking about it. The demon shot him a surprised grin and promptly burst into laughter. It was genuine but with an edge of hysteria, and it took him several moments to collect himself.

“So,” chuckled Crowley, a little manic, “What's the plan? How are we going to stop them this time?” 

Before Aziraphale could come up with an answer (or, more honestly, admit he had no idea), the telephone rang shrilly. They both jumped and Crowley glared at it.

“Why do you still use that antique?” he demanded, like he himself didn’t own a forty-year-old ansaphone. The telephone rang a second time. “I bought you a mobile--programmed it and everything!” 

“I  _ like _ the rotary,” Aziraphale said reproachfully. He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Aziraphale?” a woman’s voice echoed down the line. “It’s Anathema.” 

“Anathema! How lovely to hear from you. How’s your young man?”

“Cut the crap, Aziraphale, I just had a vision of the world ending and you two were there. Again. What gives?” 

“Ah.” The angel glanced over at Crowley, raising his eyebrows imploringly. “Yes, about that.”


	4. 24 Hours Until The Second Go-Round at Armageddon, Notting Hill

It had been nearly a decade since the Apocalypse-that-Wasn't, and more things had changed then had stayed the same. For starters, Newt and Anathema were married and living in a flat in Notting Hill. Anathema had gotten a position as a primary school teacher, and Newt had finally given up on computers and found himself a nice landscaping job. Having witnessed the end of the world nearly brought about by a prepubescent boy seemed to have put them off rearing a child of their own (much to the disgruntlement of Mrs. Pulsifer) but, for the most part, they seemed very happy with their lives. 

Aziraphale was more inclined than Crowley to keep up friendships with humans, so he and Anathema spoke on the telephone two or three times a month. They’d also gone to the Device-Pulsifer wedding--though, Aziraphale realized as they sped towards London, it had been almost three years since they’d last visited in person. 

“I always feel so terrible when I lose track of time like that,” he told Crowley, wringing his hands. “They have such short lives.”

“They’re young, yet,” Crowley reassured him as he made a truly terrifying left turn onto a one-way street. Aziraphale scrabbled for purchase on the door. “If we survive another Apocalypse, we’ll take them to dinner.”

Newt and Anathema’s flat looked very tidy from the outside. The front door was painted bright blue and, when Crowley pressed the buzzer, Newt opened it immediately. 

“Anathema told me to wait by the door,” he explained as he ushered them inside. “You find the place alright?”

“No trouble at all!” Aziraphale assured him. “What a nice flat it is, too!” He bumped into Crowley, who had stopped dead in the doorway to the sitting room. “Dearest, what is it?”

“What are  _ you _ doing here?” Crowley said to someone in the room, completely ignoring his partner. 

Aziraphale peered around his shoulder and saw Madam Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell, both noticeably older than when he’d last seen them, sitting together on the loveseat. “Oh, dear.” 

“Why is he here?” Crowley repeated, scowling at the old man. 

“I--I called him,” Newt piped up. “I mean, they were there last time, and they...helped?”

“Oh, of course! That old loon helped Aziraphale right out of his body!” Crowley snapped.

“It was all just a misunderstanding,” said Aziraphale, taking the demon’s hand. “Newton is right, perhaps they could be of assistance again.”

“Aye,” Shadwell said. “These old bones are nae wha' they used t'be, but if we can help…”

“Now, if you’ll all just sit down, we can figure out what to do next.” Anathema had appeared in the doorway, an overladen tea tray in hand. She set it on the coffee table and went to lean against the mantle. Aziraphale made his way to the last free seat in the room and Crowley followed reluctantly, perching on the arm of the chair. 

“So,” Anathema said, “This morning at about eleven o’clock, I had a vision of the apocalypse happening. Again. Apparently it coincided with Aziraphale and Crowley receiving news that there is, in fact, going to be another apocalypse, right?”

“Yes, the message was delivered by the archangel Gabriel just before you rang.”

“Was that the gentleman in the very nice suit, or the one who had a bug on their head?” Tracy interjected.

“Nice suit, smarmy expression,” Crowley answered, “but that’s neither here nor there. This time, Armageddon is a non-partisan event, which means that Heaven and Hell are gonna be working together to destroy humanity.” 

The statement was met with a protracted silence, the kind you only ever hear when someone has just received very bad news. Madam Tracy put a hand over her heart. Newt looked rather like he was going to be ill. “Do we know  _ how _ it’s going to happen?” he ventured. 

“Is the bairn g'ne use his infernal powers tae summon the forces of evil again?”

“He’s not a bairn anymore, Mr. Shadwell,” Madam Tracy reminded him, patting his knee. “He’s at university now, remember: he sent us that lovely graduation card about a year ago?” 

“Adam’s not involved, is he?” Anathema asked, her expression grave. “He wouldn’t do that.” 

“Unfortunately, we don’t really know much more than you do,” Aziraphale said apologetically. “Gabriel wasn’t particularly forthcoming with the details.” 

"They aren't going to try and use Adam again," Crowley murmured. "Not after he rejected Lucifer like that. It would’ve been a massive blow to Hell."

"So you're saying Armageddon is coming and we don't know how, and we don't know when, and we have no idea how to stop it?" Anathema let out a long breath. "Well, that's promising."

“Sorry, what exactly are we meant to do here?” Newt asked suddenly. “We don’t have magical powers like you lot, we’re just people!”

“Humans had much more to do with winning last time than we did,” Aziraphale pointed out. “You’ll recall we rather mucked things up, and it was ‘just people’ who put it to rights again.” 

“But we have no information!” said Newt plaintively. 

“We do!” Crowley spoke up suddenly, turning to Anathema. “You had a vision. Might not be much, but it’s a start.”

She nodded and pulled a small notebook out of the pocket of her dress. “I wrote down everything I remembered right after it happened.” Her eyes scanned over the pages. “We were all there...and so were Adam and his friends.” A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “It was at Stonehenge.” 

“Stonehenge?” Aziraphale scoffed. “This isn’t a children’s mystery novel!” 

“Aye, lass, it does seem a tad on the nose,” agreed Shadwell. 

“Weeeellll…” Crowley drawled. “Not necessarily.” Everyone turned to look at him. 

“Whatever do you mean, my dear?” 

Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets and scuffed a toe across the carpet. He looked vaguely reminiscent of a toddler who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Got an assignment in the 1970s, during that whole moral panic about Satanists,” his lips twitched towards a smirk, “a ritual that put a hellmouth directly below Stonehenge.” 

“What’s a hellmouth?” Anathema demanded. 

“An entrance to Hell here on Earth,” Crowley explained. “Demons can come up one at a time, through the ground, but if you were looking to send all the demons in Hell topside very quickly--say, all at once--you would need an activated hellmouth.”

“So you set one up in the middle of one of England’s largest tourist attractions and never thought to mention it until now?” Aziraphale pursed his lips.

“It’s not my fault!” protested Crowley, “I didn’t activate it and, honestly, until just now, I’d forgotten I ever did it in the first place!” 

Anathema jumped in before Aziraphale could respond. “Listen, we need to focus. We’ve got to get Adam and his friends, and we’ve got to go to Stonehenge. Right now, it’s the only lead we’ve got.”

“How are we going to get in touch with the children?” Tracy wondered. “Aren’t they all off at university?” 

“I still speak to Adam on the phone sometimes,” Anathema answered. “We can give them a call and explain the situation.” As she spoke, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Newt volunteered.

“And what if they don’t want to get involved?” Crowley asked. “I don’t think they particularly enjoyed the last go-round.” 

“We just have to explain to them how important it is,” Anathema said firmly.

“I think they already know.” Newt spoke from the sitting room door, and they all turned towards his voice. There, standing with him, were Adam and the Them, all grown up. Adam's dog, which should've been old and frail by now, stood at his master's feet, as healthy and youthful as the day of the Antichrist’s eleventh birthday.

“Were there always five’a them?” muttered Shadwell. At the same moment, Crowley sprang up from the arm of the chair with a hiss.

“Warlock?” he yelped. 

“Nanny?” asked the extra teen in a stunned voice, peering out from behind Adam.

“Oh my,” said Aziraphale.


	5. 23 Hours Until The Second Go-Round at Armageddon, Notting Hill

“Warlock, what in Heav--on Earth are you doing here?” Crowley demanded. The poor demon looked like he was about to keel over from shock.

“What am I doing here? What are  _ you _ doing here?” he glanced over at Aziraphale, who had put a steadying hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Brother Francis?” 

“Hello, my dear. How have you been?” 

Adam looked between them. “Wait...these two are the ones you told me about? Your nanny and your gardener?” 

“How do you know the Antichrist?” asked Crowley, voice faint.

Warlock didn’t seem surprised by this description of Adam. Aziraphale watched as he and Adam exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between them. He was hardly surprised when Adam twined their fingers together and scowled up at Crowley.

“I’m his boyfriend.” 

“You’re  _ dating _ the Antichrist?!” Crowley shrieked, his voice shooting through several octaves. 

“Maybe you would’ve known that if you hadn’t completely disappeared from his life,” Adam said, voice cold. Crowley flinched as if he’d been struck. 

“Newt!” Anathema said in a too-bright voice. “Would you care to help me in the kitchen? I think everyone is going to want supper soon.”

“We’ll help you too, dearie,” Madam Tracy chirped. She got up from the loveseat with surprising speed and pulled Sergeant Shadwell to his feet. 

“Me and Brian and Wensley can set the table,” Pepper added, catching on. 

“Actually, yes, I think that would be a good idea,” said Wensleydale, eyes darting to Adam's scowl and crossed arms. He scooped up Dog in a manner unbefitting for canine royalty and made a break for the dining room.

Within moments, the room was cleared and only Crowley, Aziraphale, Adam, and Warlock remained. There was a moment of perfectly terrible silence.

“Warlock, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said quietly. “We didn’t want to leave you, you see, but we aren’t exactly what you thought we were.”

“You’re angels,” Warlock said. “Adam told me you helped him fight his other father and save the world.”

“Yes, well, that’s...more or less the truth,” Aziraphale hedged, peering at Crowley from the corner of his eye. He still hadn’t moved, a stricken expression on his face.

They’d spoken about Warlock before, of course. In the course of their time in the Dowling household, they’d both come to love him rather dearly, Crowley especially. But whenever Aziraphale had tried to bring up the possibility of finding him again, the demon had always shied away from the conversation. Aziraphale suspected he was afraid that Warlock wouldn’t remember them, or worse, that he might not forgive them for abandoning him. 

“So you left to go help Adam, fine. But you could’ve come back.” His expression, which had been relatively neutral up to this point, clouded over. "Did you only care about me because you thought I was the Antichrist?"

"Of course not," exclaimed Aziraphale. "Maybe that's how it started, but we grew to care a great deal about you."

"Then why didn't you come back?"

Finally, Crowley spoke up, his voice hoarse. “Didn’t know if you’d want to see us again. It must have seemed very cruel **\--** us leaving without a word.”

Warlock considered this for a moment. “Maybe so,” he conceded, “but I can’t figure out how you could’ve explained the situation to a ten-year-old, especially if you thought the world might end anyway. I think you did the best you could. I forgive you.”

Crowley gaped at him, wordless.

“Just like that?” Even Aziraphale, who was more in the business of forgiveness, found this overly generous.

“Sure, I mean,’ Warlock’s chin quivered, “for a long time I kinda thought you just didn’t love me anymore, s--so this is way better.”

Instantly, Crowley crossed the space between them and pulled him into his arms. Warlock gave a muffled sob and buried his face in the demon’s shoulder. 

“We’ve alwaysss loved you, Warlock. Believe that. Leaving you was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done and I promissse, I’ll never do it again.” 

Aziraphale blinked away the moisture in his own eyes and took a step forward, putting one gentle hand on Warlock’s back and the other on Crowley's shoulder. “You’ve grown into a lovely young person.” 

Adam, who had been watching the whole scene play out with a stony expression, softened. He offered Aziraphale a crooked smile. “I suppose this is one good thing that’s come of this whole Apocalypse re-do then.” 

“Yes, I suppose it is.” 

About half an hour later, after Crowley and Warlock had managed to compose themselves, Pepper stuck her head back into the room. 

“Dinner’s ready,” she said. “Anathema says to wash up and join us, and we’ll figure out where everyone’s sleeping later.” 

Despite the looming threat of Armageddon, dinner was a cheerful affair. Warlock regaled Aziraphale and Crowley with tales of his secondary school exploits and the story of how he met Adam, while down at the other end of the table Pepper and Anathema were discussing some advanced feminist literature. Newt listened patiently as Shadwell rambled on about whatever thoughts happened to cross his mind, and even Tracy, Brian, and Wensleydale seemed to have found a conversational rhythm. 

At the end of the meal, there was a brief disagreement over who was going to be responsible for the washing-up, which was ended rather definitively by Crowley miracling all of the dishes clean before anyone could so much as fill the sink. Finding places for everyone to sleep was another challenge, one that Anathema was firmly against miracling a solution to. 

“It’s my home, I don’t want you breaking the laws of physics to change it,” she insisted.

In the end, the second bedroom went to Shadwell and Tracy, and Anathema fished sleeping bags out for the teenagers. (“I don’t remember having this many sleeping bags," she commented as she excavated them from the linen closet. Newt, wisely, didn’t raise the possibility that one of their guests had again violated her no-miracles rule.) The five of Them piled happily onto the sitting room floor by the fireplace, rather like children settling in for a sleepover.

Aziraphale assured Anathema that he and Crowley would need no such provisions, much to the demon's disgruntlement.

"We don't actually require sleep," he told her. "We'll be fine."

"Speak for yourself," mumbled Crowley and Aziraphale rolled his eyes. 

Anathema glanced bemusedly between them. She shrugged and visibly made the decision to leave them to their own devices. "Suit yourselves. Goodnight!" 

Aziraphale took his scowling demon by the elbow and led him to the sofa. "Do sit down, dearest."

"We could just miracle ourselves home and come back tomorrow," Crowley complained, but he sank down onto the cushions nonetheless.

"We will do no such thing," chided Aziraphale. "These humans are risking everything to help us avert the Apocalypse  _ again _ . We can stand to stay." He perched next to Crowley, patting his knee and beaming.

"Fine," grumbled the demon, but his expression went soft like it always did when Aziraphale smiled at him.

"I'll read to you once the children are asleep," Aziraphale promised.

"'m not a child," protested Brian who was, in fact, the only one of the teenagers  _ not _ already asleep.

"Of course not, my boy," the angel said graciously. This seemed to placate him and, within moments, Brian's eyes were slipping shut too.

Almost instantly, Crowley slid sideways, slithering down the length of the sofa until his feet were propped on the arm and head was in Aziraphale's lap. The angel reached out and plucked the sunglasses off his face, folding them and placing them carefully on the arm of the couch. Crowley stared unblinkingly at him, brow furrowed. After so many years, Aziraphale could already anticipate the question on his mind.

"We will win, Crowley."

The demon's lips curved up. "You really believe that?"

Aziraphale remembered the last time they’d had this conversation, back when his 'we' had meant something entirely different. He took Crowley's hand, lacing their fingers together. "Of course I do, my love."

Crowley's answering smile was brilliant. Aziraphale found himself quite helpless to do anything but lean down and kiss him soundly. When they finally broke apart, Crowley's pale face was flushed pink. 

The angel ran a hand through his hair. "Sleep if you need to, darling. I'll keep watch."

Crowley nodded, eyes already drifting shut. Within a few minutes, his breathing evened out and his body relaxed as he drifted off.

Aziraphale kept running his fingers through the short strands of his hair, watching his face as he slept, and waiting for the sun to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, Warlock is non-binary and still uses "he/him" pronouns.


	6. 12 Hours Until The Second Go-Round at Armageddon, Stonehenge

The morning of the second apocalypse dawned bright and cold. With the combined efforts of Aziraphale and Anathema, everyone was awake and gathered around the table as the sun started to rise. Breakfast was a stack of toast with a selection of jams and a pot of strong coffee. There was very little conversation, though whether that was due to exhaustion or anxiety about what was to come is hard to say.

Shadwell was stoically going through the motions of drinking his coffee while Tracy sat next to him, spreading marmalade over toast and stacking it on his plate. Across the table, Newt tried in vain to fix his bedhead while Anathema hid a smile behind her cup.

Warlock was still half-asleep, leaning against Crowley, who had snaked an arm around his waist to keep him upright. On his other side, Adam was staring blearily down into his mug. Brian and Wensley didn't seem much better off but Pepper was wide awake, her gaze flitting around the table as if she were doing some sort of calculations.

"How're we all gonna fit in the car?" she wondered aloud. 

Anathema looked up sharply."You kids didn't come in a car?"

Pepper shook her head. "Took the Tube."

"We've got a car," Aziraphale volunteered, ignoring the betrayed look Crowley gave him. 

"Didn't it blow up?" mused Madam Tracy.

"I fixed it," Adam mumbled, surfacing from his contemplation of his coffee.

"That's still not enough room," Pepper insisted. "Four in Dick Turpin, five in the old-fashioned car, that still leaves two."

"Old-fashioned!" Crowley sputtered, "The Bentley's a classic!"

"We can squeeze a fifth in mine," said Newt over the demon's outburst.

"And we'll make room for the last," Aziraphale said firmly.

And so it was, they set off to avert another apocalypse, packed like sardines. Newt, Anathema, Tracy, Shadwell, and Wensley rode in Dick Turpin, and the rest squeezed into the Bentley which, upon the realization that it was expected to carry an extra passenger, simply stretched out it's backseat to accommodate. If the Bentley was indignant at being made to carry a _dog,_ it gave no indication, but then again, Adam was very conscientious about keeping Dog in his lap and off the leather seats.

Stonehenge was only an hour's drive from London but it felt much longer, what with the weight of the world on their shoulders.

When they finally arrived and climbed out of the cars, it was immediately apparent that something was wrong. The site was completely abandoned. Vehicles that usually lined the nearby road were nowhere to be seen. There were no tourists taking selfies, no tour guides talking loudly over a murmuring crowd. It was as if they had been thrown suddenly and inexplicably back into the Bronze Age. 

As they approached the monument, the reason became clear. The entire area was radiating infernal energy so strongly that Aziraphale suspected even the humans could sense it. Sure enough, after they walked a few feet closer, Wensleydale stopped dead in his tracks.

"Actually, I don't know about this." 

Brian hesitated too. "I don’t like this place, it feels spooky.”

Crowley turned to them, a sympathetic twist to his lips. "That'll be the hellmouth. Somebody's activated it. No one would blame you if you want to turn back." He glanced around at the rest of the humans. "Any of you."

"No way," Warlock piped up. "We're not leaving."

"None of us," agreed Adam. 

Wensley and Brian exchanged a glance and both nodded. 

"Perhaps you would feel more confident if you had some kind of weapons?" suggested Aziraphale. "Surely we can find something for you."

"What, are you going to conjure them weapons?" Crowley asked incredulously.

"I _was_ a warrior, once," pointed out Aziraphale.

"A long time ago!"

While they were bickering, a postal truck pulled up and parked behind the Bentley. The door opened and out popped a familiar delivery person, who promptly went to the back of the truck and started unloading packages. Aziraphale and Crowley stopped speaking, watching his approach with interest.

Leslie wiggled his fingers cheerfully in the best approximation of a wave that he could manage while also carrying multiple large boxes. "I've got several deliveries for you lot," he said. "Is there a Ms. Pippin Gal--"

"Just Pepper," said Pepper, taking the clipboard he offered her and signing her name.

"Of course, miss. I'm also looking for a Mr. Jeremy Wensleydale, a Mr. Brian Lee, and a Mx..." he paused squinting down at the paperwork, "...Warlock Dowling?"

One by one, Brian and Wensleydale signed for, and received their packages. When Leslie came to Warlock, he smiled brightly.

"This one comes with a personal message from the gent who sent it, for all of you. He says he doesn't like pettiness, and would prefer you stop this whole mess before he has to get involved." For the first time, his demeanor changed, apprehension clouding his features. He cleared his throat and, with an effort, put on another smile. "Well, I must be off. Best of luck to you all." 

Leslie hadn't even made it back to his truck before Crowley was swinging back around to look at the teens. "Well?" he asked impatiently, "What are you waiting for? Open them!"

Aziraphale had a fairly good idea about what at least one of the packages contained and, sure enough, moments later, Pepper reached into her box and pulled out a sword. As soon as her hand closed around the hilt, flames burst forth from the blade with a soft _whumph._

"Wicked!" She grinned, swinging it experimentally.

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, mouth twitching towards a grin. "Just can't keep a hold of it, can you?"

Wensley carefully opened his package and lifted out a shining set of brass scales. A rejuvenating green light filled the bowls as he held it. "What is it?"

Aziraphale stepped closer and examined the scales. "I do believe it's a conduit for healing magic, my dear boy."

"What's mine?" Brian asked as he lifted a crown from its wrappings. The metal, which had been tarnished and blackened, began to glow, rust and decay sloughing away to reveal a silver sheen beneath.

"I recognize that spell! That's cleansing magic," Anathema said before Aziraphale could answer. "But it's much stronger than any I've seen before. I bet it'll banish anything that doesn't belong."

“Whoa, that’s so cool!” Adam exclaimed, which was when Aziraphale realized that Warlock had also opened his package. He turned and saw the teenager clutching a long black staff that ended in a glimmering, curved blade. It’s aura was so powerful that, for a moment, the malevolent aura of the hellmouth faded from Aziraphale’s mind. 

“Is that Death’s scythe?” Crowley asked faintly.

“I do believe that it is.”

The demon put his hands on his hips and scowled. “Warlock, be careful with that thing! It’s very sharp!” 

Warlock rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “I will, Nanny.”

"Well," said Aziraphale, summoning the most optimistic smile he could manage, "at least you have some weapons now."

"I don't," Newt pointed out, his tone decidedly disgruntled. Anathema elbowed him in the ribs.

"I've got ye covered, lad!" exclaimed Shadwell. He flung open his jacket and produced a small crossbow from where it had been strapped to his side. "The Crossbow of Witchfinder Lieutenant Thou-Shalt-Not-Mingle-Linen-and-Wool Ainsley."

"Do you just carry that around with you all the time?" Anathema asked in dismay.

"Aye, lass. An' Jezebel here has The Torch of Witchfinder Private Don't-Litter Bradley."

Tracy waved a massive silver Maglite in the air. It was so heavy, she had to hold it with both hands. "I imagine you can give a demon a right proper headache if you conk him with this!"

Anathema sighed. "Let's just get this over with."

"Doesn't she need a weapon too?" Crowley mumbled to Aziraphale in an undertone, but Anathema still heard him.

"I'll be fine, I know how to perform exorcisms," she called without turning back.

"Eurgh," said Crowley.

The group passed under the archway and into the middle of the circle of stones. In the center, the energy of the hellmouth was at its peak. Aziraphale saw a shadow pass across Newt’s expression. Warlock shivered and Adam wrapped an arm comfortingly around his shoulders. The air was silent, expectant as if a great storm were about to be unleashed. They all looked at each other anxiously.

“So…” ventured Pepper, “what do we do now?” 

Crowley gave her a grim smile. “Now we wait.” He draped himself over one of the large, flat rocks on the ground, crossing his feet at the ankles. To the others, he may have looked effortlessly relaxed, but Aziraphale knew better. He sat down next to his partner, resting his hand, palm up, between them. Crowley laced his fingers through Aziraphale’s, gently squeezing his hand in thanks.

One by one, the humans followed suit, settling together in small groups on the stones or the grass, speaking in low voices. All clinging to one another as they waited for the end of the world to begin. 

They didn’t have to wait long, all told. The sun wheeled towards its zenith as they sat anticipating the coming battle. It was just after noon by Aziraphale’s estimation when a deafening trumpet fanfare burst forth from the skies. The clouds parted and a column of light, even brighter than the sun shone down into the center of Stonehenge. Angels began to appear--hundreds upon thousands of them--in all their splendor, perfectly polished armor gleaming. The sky was full of them.

Leading the squadron were the three archangels: Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel. Their multicolored wings shimmered in the sunlight, near-blinding in their intensity. On the ground below, the humans looked up in awe. Aziraphale imagined it must be quite the display for mortals who had never seen a celestial army before.

Gabriel landed gracefully in front of them, flanked by the other two archangels. He was wielding a broadsword nearly as tall as Pepper, but he still wore the dove-grey suit that he so favored. The incongruity struck Aziraphale and he let out a helpless snicker.

Gabriel's lavender eyes pierced him. "This hardly seems the time for joviality, Aziraphale. Especially considering that you and your friends are about to meet an untimely end."

"At least we won't look as stuck-up as you when we do," Adam piped up.

"So you've chosen to align yourself with these imbeciles again." Gabriel shook his head. "You still could've been forgiven."

"Oh yeah, because his father is absolutely the forgiving kind," Crowley said sarcastically.

"Do you ever shut up?" Gabriel snapped. Crowley gave him a toothy grin 

"'fraid not." He cocked his head, as if hearing something from far away, then turned to look at Aziraphale. "They're coming."

As soon as he finished speaking, there was a thunderous crack that had all the humans covering their ears. And then the ground split open before them. One of the massive columns of stone crashed to the ground and was swallowed by the gaping wound in the earth. Thousands of demons spilled out of the chasm: talons and teeth, claws and spikes in a writhing, churning mass. Horrific snarls and growls rent the air as demons surrounded them on all sides. Beelzebub led the hoarde, their multifaceted wings on display as they rose from the hellmouth. Pus dripped from their skin as they alighted in front of the motley crew that made up Earth's defenders. 

"Iszzzz this the best you could come up with, Crowley?" they sneered. "I admit, I was hoping for a bit more of a challenge. It waszz foolish of you to turn down our offer."

Crowley offered them a grin devoid of any warmth. "You know me. An idiot through and through. Can we get on with it?"

Hastur appeared at Beelzebub's left shoulder. He grinned manically, eyes as black as the Bottomless Pit, and even the ever-stoic Uriel leaned away. "I'm gonna tear you limb from limb, like I've always wanted to. And then I'm going to eat your little false-Antichrist's entrails for dessert."

Warlock didn't seem cowed. "You still smell like shit, asshole." At his feet, Dog barked in agreement.

"What are they waiting for?" Anathema muttered, "They're all here, why aren't they attacking?"

Aziraphale exchanged a glance with Crowley. "They're not all here just yet, I'm afraid."

"Lucifer is coming," Crowley confirmed through gritted teeth. It was taking everything he had to stay standing against the onslaught of the devil's growing rage.

"I thought Adam destroyed him last time!" cried Anathema.

"That was really more of a banishment," Aziraphale explained. "But, ah, we weren't certain that he was going to be involved this time."

"We're all gonna die," whimpered Newt.

Crowley turned his eyes on Aziraphale. "He's probably right, angel. And if that's the case, just remember that I lo--"

"I know, you silly creature," Aziraphale interrupted. He grabbed Crowley by the front of his jacket and hauled him in for a kiss. "I love you, too."

There was a chorus of delighted cheers from the teenagers behind them, mingling with the disgusted howls of the demon army in front, but neither Aziraphale or Crowley paid them any mind. They just enjoyed a kiss that they felt might very well be their last.

Then a high pitched noise like a whistling kettle, but much worse, pierced the air. Crowley would've fallen to his knees if it weren't for Aziraphale's arms around his waist. The humans cried out in pain as the sound grew in intensity, worming its way into their minds. Red light poured from the pit, the glow ebbing with unholy misery and eternal rage. It could only be Satan, and he was ascending.

Lucifer didn't appear like he had eight years previous, all red scales and claws. Instead, he appeared like Crowley remembered him from just after the Fall. He was tall and golden-haired, tresses falling almost to his feet. But the perfect circle of his halo was shattered, giving the appearance of ragged, colorless horns. His eyes were still the shocking green they had been in Heaven, but there were no pupils to give any warmth to them, and rivulets of bloody tears ran down his alabaster cheeks to pool in the hollow of his collarbones. His robes were singed black, and there was ash on his arms and in his hair. A pair of massive wings burst from his shoulders. They had been a shimmering once--sapphire and silver, light as gossamer, but they were rusted beyond recognition now, to a tarnished and dull grey.

The only part of his appearance that remained the same was the crown. It was heavy: blackened iron, sharpened into points and nestled carefully in his golden curls. He smiled, cold and cruel, as he looked upon humanity's last line of defense. 

"He doesn't look how I remember," Adam commented.

Aziraphale nodded. "You were a child then, and he appeared in a way that would be more recognizable to you. This must be his preferred shape."

"It's actually way scarier," admitted Adam. 

Aziraphale took his hand just like he had eight years ago, and gave him a faint smile."We're right here with you."

Lucifer turned his blank gaze on Crowley. "You are my greatest disappointment," he said. There was a melodious quality to his voice that didn't entirely hide the menace in his tone. "I gave you the gift of the First Temptation and yet you choose to repay me in this manner, over and over again. Why?"

Crowley's face was ashen, but he met Lucifer's gaze head-on. "Guess I'm not a very good demon."

“A pathetic excuse for an angel and an even worse failure as a demon. I’ve come to realize that the only way you will ever please me is with your permanent demise.”

Aziraphale bristled, but Crowley’s fingers curled gently around his wrist, entreating him not to say anything. So Aziraphale turned to the archangels, who were watching Lucifer, expressions torn between fascination and horror.

“Gabriel, it doesn’t have to be this way,” he said. “There’s no need for any of this.”

“You’ve always been a fool, Aziraphale,” snapped Gabriel. “Of course we need this! And we should thank you; without seeing you and that demon working together, it would have never occurred to us to join forces with the armies of Hell.”

"Enough of thiszz!" cried Beelzebub, "To war!"

The demons swarmed forward. Hastur was closest, and he lunged at Crowley. Warlock, who was standing next to him, reflectively swung the scythe. It sliced into Hastur's shoulder and he had an instant to look surprised before he was consumed by purple-black fire and was gone.

"Holy shit," Warlock said hoarsely. 

Crowley put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Alright?"

The other demons on the front line slowed at the abrupt destruction of one of the Dukes of Hell, but they didn't stop their advance completely. Aziraphale took an automatic step back as they closed in and felt his shoulder collide with Crowley's.

The look on Crowley's face was bleak, but he forced a smile for his angel. "Well, at least we tried, eh?"

Aziraphale made a dismayed sound. "It's not over yet!"

"Angel, it is. We might take out a few, and these magical weapons might keep the humans alive a little longer, but the numbers are against us. So unless you've some kind of secret weapon I don't know about, we're going down. But we won't go without a fight."

"A secret weapon…" murmured the angel thoughtfully. His eyes widened. "Of course!"

*

Let us speak, for a moment, on the nature of hierarchy in Heaven and Hell.

It will probably come as no surprise to you that Heaven has a very strict pecking order. Obviously I Am the top, followed by my voice, the Metatron. After this come the archangels (or seraphim), then cherubim, thrones, and so on and so forth down the line to the lowliest of angels. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Cleanliness is next to godliness, after all, and what is organization but another form of cleanliness?

Things are a bit different in Hell. There's certainly a _sense_ of rank and file (there would be no princes and dukes, otherwise), but it's much more tenuous and prone to upset. Perhaps because of the demons' origin in rebellion, there is a standing rule in Hell which applies to all it's denizens, even Lucifer. If a demon challenges another of a higher rank to metaphysical combat and wins, they take that demon's rank. Skirmishes of this nature break out frequently, particularly among lower-level demons, but they become increasingly rare the higher up the chain of command one goes. In fact, in all six thousand years of Creation, no demon has ever challenged Lucifer. After all, he was an archangel himself before the Fall, among the most powerful and highest ranked of angels. Foolhardy as they are generally are, even demons have enough sense to know they wouldn't stand a chance.

Interesting, no? But back to our tale.

*

Aziraphale had never wanted to have this conversation, but it was rapidly becoming apparent that there was no other option. One of the bolder demons stepped forward into the ever-tightening circle and vanished in a puff of sulfur as Brian turned the cleansing power of the silver crown on him. The other demons hissed and pressed closer.

"Crowley, I need to speak with you about something."

He looked up, eyebrows raised above his dark glasses. "What, _now_?"

"Can't you do what you did last time, darling?" Aziraphale insisted, "I'm afraid it's frightfully important."

"What I did last time? Wha--you want me to stop time? It's not exactly easy, angel!"

Aziraphale opened his mouth to argue, but Adam interrupted. "I can do it."

"You can?" Crowley sounded flabbergasted.

Adam shrugged. "Saw you do it once, so I figured it out."

"Wonderful! Dear boy, if you could just pause everything, I would be much obliged. I just need to speak with Crowley privately for a tick, and then we can...get back to it."

Adam nodded, closed his eyes, and blinked out of existence. In fact, everything blinked out of existence except for Aziraphale and Crowley, and they found themselves standing alone in a white void. 

Crowley took off his sunglasses, yellow eyes intent on his angel's face. "Aziraphale, what's going on?"

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly, so quietly. “Dearest, I’m afraid there’s something I have to tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've unfortunately never been to Stonehenge, so all my information comes from [here](https://www.english-heritage.org.uk/visit/places/stonehenge/). Also looking at a metric TON of aerial shots of the site.
> 
> The hierarchy of angels that I'm using for this story is loosely based off the one mostly widely accepted by the Catholic church. It's as follows: Seraphim, cherubim, thrones, dominions, virtues, powers, principalities, arch-angels, angels. For my purposes, there are five seraphim (i.e. the only angels allowed direct contact with the throne of God): Michael, Gabriel, Lucifer, Raphael, and Uriel. Though the different denominations (as well as other religions and deuterocanonical books) disagree which of the named angels are, in fact, the highest ranked, they all do generally agree that "archangel" and "arch-angel" refer to different ranks, the former being the highest and the latter being second-lowest. Most angelolgists agree that Michael and Co are, in fact, seraphim.


	7. 4004 B.C., The Garden of Eden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, just a quick heads-up, at the very end of this chapter, a character uses a now-derogatory word to describe lesbians. It wasn't derogatory in the era that the scene is set in, and it's used in a casual way, not as a slur.

Aziraphale had known Crowley from the first moment he saw him. As the scales gave way to flesh, and black wings bloomed from the demon's shoulder blades, Aziraphale recognized the Fallen archangel standing beside him on the wall of Eden. Of course he did. There were thousands in the heavenly host, but there had only been five archangels. Three remained, after the Fall. And Lucifer didn't have shining copper hair or infinite golden eyes.

The demon formerly known as Raphael glanced at Aziraphale. His eyes were no longer golden, but slitted, snake-like and an evocative yellow. They reminded Aziraphale of the sunflowers that grew in the Garden. He flashed a nervous smile, despite himself. The demon seemed to take this as an invitation to speak. 

“Well that went over like a lead balloon,” he said. 

It was after a few minutes of conversation that Aziraphale trailed off, waiting for the demon to provide whatever name he went by now. After all, a demon couldn't speak their former name without causing themselves great pain, so he suspected it was bad etiquette to bring it up. When the demon introduced himself as Crawly, that seemed to confirm it. 

It took Aziraphale several more millennia to understand the whole truth of the matter. He pieced it together slowly, over decades of coincidental run-ins and gradually more intentional meet-ups. They'd known each other for nearly three thousand years before Crowley even mentioned his Fall to Aziraphale.

*

It was 1273 B.C. and Aziraphale found the demon who still called themself Crawly lurking on the outskirts of a desert camp at the base of Mount Nebo. They were propped up beneath a pitiful looking olive tree, a ceramic jug in hand. When they spotted Aziraphale walking towards them, they transformed lightning-quick into a snake and started to burrow into the sand.

“Oh, please don’t go!” Aziraphale called before he could think better of it. To his surprise, the snake stopped, lifting its head to regard the angel quizzically. A moment later, Crawly was wearing their human form again, slumping back against the base of the tree, limbs akimbo.

“‘Lo angel!” they slurred. “Hand me that jug?” 

Feeling increasingly awkward, Aziraphale picked up the recently abandoned jug and offered it back to the demon. Liquid sloshed inside, but it was lighter than he expected, close to empty. Crawly snatched it and took a generous swallow before lifting an eyebrow in an unsubtle invitation. 

Aziraphale sat down a few feet away and Crawly nudged the jug in his direction, nearly upending it into the angel’s lap. For lack of anything better to do, Aziraphale picked it up and brought it to his lips. The liquid inside was unnaturally cold, achingly sweet, and _incredibly_ fortified. 

“Are you drunk on miracled mead?” he asked incredulously as soon as he’d swallowed. 

Crawly rolled their eyes.“So you don’ want any?” 

“I didn’t say that,” protested Aziraphale, primly ignoring the demon’s ungainly snort of laughter. “What brings you out here?”

Crawly’s grin seemed to shrivel up before his eyes. “’m meant to be tempting this desert clan,” they tipped their head in the direction of the camp. “Humans are much more sussceptible when they’ve experienced a lossss, ‘specially of one of their religious elders.” 

“You’re here because of Moses,” Aziraphale realized. 

Crawly muttered a blessing. “Should’ve known you’d be here for the same reason. Lemme guess: you’re meant to bring them solace from their grief.” 

“I am.”

“Suppose I should let you get on with it, then,” Crawly slurred, making a shooing gesture with their hand. They reached for the jug again, mead sloshing over the rim as it miraculously refilled. “Lovely talking to you.” 

Aziraphale climbed to his feet, turned to go, but hesitated. “I-- I’ve got one question first.”

“Yes?” 

“You, ah, you don’t seem like you’re doing very much tempting.” 

Crawly quirked an eyebrow. “And here I thought you’d be elated. Less work for you, to be sure.”

“Oh, erm, I am! Quite. Quite. It’s just--”

“A demon with a terrible work ethic should, by all accounts be a boon to a busy Principality such as yourself.”

“Of course, my dear, it’s just…” Aziraphale paused, trying to find a way to phrase his question delicately. “You seem out of sorts. Are you quite alright?” 

Crawly’s face contorted, yellow eyes flashing. “What kind of question is that?” they snapped. “‘Course I’m fine. Just here to tempt a few humans. Shouldn’t be hard, considering they’ve just lost the best of the lot, and even _he_ wasn’t in the Almighty’s good booksss!” 

All at once, Aziraphale understood. He felt his chest go tight with sympathy. “Oh. Oh, Crawly…”

The demon was on their feet suddenly, and right in Aziraphale’s face. “Tell me, angel. Doesss the Almighty even have good books, or are Her ssstandards so exacting that no human can posssssibly meet them?” 

Aziraphale took a step back. “I am not the Almighty, Crawly," he said defensively. "I’m not meant to know these things.” 

“That man spent over a century doing Her Will, showing nothing but devotion and dedication- He lost family, he wandered everywhere under the sun, he did terrible, violent thingsss, and he did it in Heaven’s name. In all those years he lost faith for just a sssingle moment, disobeyed _one time_ , and was punished with a glimpse of the paradise he could never experience and a death alone in the desert. How is that jusssst?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admitted. 

Though it wasn’t much different from his initial response, this reply seemed to take all the wind out of Crawly’s sails. They thumped back to the ground, eyeing the angel warily as they reached again for the mead. Aziraphale glanced towards the camp and then back at the demon. In the distance, the final rays of sunlight were beginning to retreat over the horizon, streaking the sky vibrant purple, orange, and red. But even as the clouds were illuminated like a masterpiece, dark shadows crept across the jagged landscape heralding the cold desert night. Crawly took a long swig from the jug.

“Did I ever tell you about Falling?” they murmured.

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. “I can’t say that you have.”

“It burned,” Crawly said, voice low. “Like a bonfire inside a volcano at the heart of the desert in the hottest part of the day. And that was nothing compared to the landing.” They rolled their shoulders, feeling some phantom ache perhaps, eyes far away.

Aziraphale sank back down next to them. “How did you come to Fall?” he found himself asking without meaning to.

Crawly shrugged, made a noise that sounded somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I didn’t mean to. Just asked too many questions, I guessssss.”

There didn’t seem to be an appropriate response to that, so Aziraphale remained silent. Above them, through the sparse leaves of the tree, the first stars were coming out, but Aziraphale couldn't manage to tear his gaze away from Crawley. The demon blinked slowly at him, their luminous yellow eyes wide and sad. 

“I think,” Aziraphale said finally, breaking the silence, “that perhaps we should leave Moses’ people to grieve in whatever way they see fit.”

A gently surprised smile stole across Crawly’s expression. It was a familiar look, though Aziraphale couldn’t say why. “I think perhaps you’re right.” 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/63905916@N03/49512376688/in/dateposted-public/)

*

It didn’t come up again for a long time. Crowley never mentioned that night under the olive tree and Aziraphale followed his lead. He suspected the conversation wouldn’t have happened had the demon been sober, and he was merciful enough to spare Crowley the embarrassment his curiosity would inevitably bring.

By the time the topic came up again, Aziraphale had long assumed it would never resurface. They saw more of each other, these days. The world was getting smaller and smaller, pushing them closer together with each passing century. By the early eleventh century, Aziraphale had consented to The Arrangement, though he worried **-** -unlike Crowley, apparently **-** -that it would eventually get them into trouble. 

It hadn’t yet, but only a few centuries had passed and Aziraphale had no intention of letting his guard down. Which is why, when the assignment came in directing him to Barcelona, he went without a fuss. Though he’d heard some unpleasant tales about the Inquisition, Aziraphale assumed they were exaggerated. Surely, he’d be in and out in a matter of days, none the worse for wear.

He was in Spain for less than twelve hours before he saw a man burned at the stake for sodomy. Ten minutes, the man screamed, before he finally died.

Aziraphale abandoned his assignment and found the nearest cantina. Clearly, the tribunal here didn’t need his encouragement and, he had to confess, he wasn’t particularly keen on giving it: not after that display. He was halfway through his second bottle of thick, dry Tempranillo before he realized he wasn’t the only immortal trying to drink away his sorrows in this particular bar. 

“‘nother round,” mumbled a familiar voice from behind him. 

Aziraphale spun around so quickly he made himself dizzy. “Crowley?” 

A dark figure at the corner table lurched upright, hair glimmering copper in the candlelight. “Asssssiraphale? What in Go--Sa-- _anyone’s_ name are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing here?” he retorted, rather than answering. 

Crowley didn’t appear to notice the evasion, hunching in on himself, like an animal under attack trying to protect it's vulnerable parts. His chin quivered and his mouth flattened into a thin line. “I...I’m jussssst having a drink.” 

Clearly there was more to it than that, but Aziraphale graciously decided not to push. “May I join you?”

“Ah,” said Crowley uncertainly. After a moment's hesitation, he kicked out the chair across the table. “Have a seat.”

Aziraphale did. Crowley slouched back in his seat, trying desperately to give the impression of relaxation, but his shoulders were too tense and his knuckles white where he gripped his tankard.

“What are you drinking?” the angel asked, scrambling for a topic of conversation that wouldn’t agitate Crowley further.

“Sssssangria.”

“What’s sangria?”

Crowley lifted his gaze from where he’d been scrutinizing the floor. His dark glasses had slipped to the end of his nose and Aziraphale could see his yellow eyes widen. “You’ve never had sangria?” 

“I can’t say that I have, dear boy. What exactly is it?”

Crowley was already waving the barmaid over. “Some sangria for my friend!”

Within a few moments, there was a large pewter mug placed in front of Aziraphale. He thanked the barmaid politely and waited until she had moved away before turning back to Crowley with an inquisitive expression. “What’s in this?”

“Jussst try it,” Crowley insisted. “Let me tempt you just this once. You’ll like it.”

Under other circumstances, perhaps, Aziraphale would have protested, maybe even to the point of getting angry and leaving. But his day so far had been terrible, and it seemed like Crowley's wasn't going much better. Maybe agreeing would cheer him up. 

“Oh, alright,” Aziraphale huffed, bringing the cup to his lips. 

The drink was blood red but surprisingly sweet, and not as thick as the red wine Aziraphale was used to. It reminded him of the mead they’d shared at Mount Nebo, but with more complex flavors. 

“Goodness!” he said, beaming. “That’s quite refreshing.” 

Crowley’s mouth curled up at the edge. “It’s a sort of bubbly red wine with brandy and citrus fruit,” he explained. “Better than wine in this heat, I think.”

“It certainly is,” Aziraphale agreed. He took another sip. “Hmm. Sangria.” 

They fell into a companionable silence. Crowley watched over the rim of his mug as Aziraphale enjoyed his first, and then second round of sangria. There had been a time when the angel would’ve felt uncomfortable with those eyes focused so intensely on him, but it was long past. For the moment he was simply glad not to be alone with his thoughts. Fallen though he was, there was no one else on Earth who understood Aziraphale as well as Crowley did.

“My side sent me here to bless the Barcelona tribunal,” he said abruptly. “I’m not sure if they’re responsible for all...this, but they certainly endorse it.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”

“Well, I.” Aziraphale floundered. “That is to say...it all seems rather violent, doesn’t it? Surely there are other means to converting people?” 

“Careful, angel. You’ll get into trouble, asking questions like that.” 

“Like you did?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Aziraphale regretted them. Crowley went very still. “I--I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“Yessss, you did!” hissed Crowley. He reared back in his seat, a cobra about to strike. “You wouldn’t have ssssaid it if you didn’t!”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, I’m--I’m not passing judgment. I just...want to know.”

“Sssssso you know what to avoid?” 

“So I can understand you better,” Aziraphale retorted, surprising himself with his honesty. 

Crowley looked surprised too, before he shoved his sunglasses back up his nose, obscuring his expression. He looked away, silent for a long moment. 

“I was curious,” he finally confessed. “About the whole free will concept. The Morningstar seemed to be the one asking the questions I wanted to know answers to, so I went to him.”

“But weren’t you and Lu--the Adversary already close?” Aziraphale remembered this. The archangels had always been together, above and apart from the rest of the heavenly host, the only ones with a direct line to the Almighty. It was the closest thing to envy angels experienced-- longing to be included in that inner circle who regularly saw Her face.

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you were…” Aziraphale trailed off. It seemed a step too far to mention Crowley’s former rank. _The higher you fly, the harder_ _you_ _fall_ was an adage nearly as old as the angel himself, and with good reason. Frankly, Aziraphale considered it nothing short of a miracle that Crowley was talking about this with him at all. 

“Becausssse?” Crowley prompted, the exaggerated sibilance the only indication of his apprehension.

Aziraphale hastened to reassure him. “Oh, pardon me! I shouldn’t have assumed. It’s just that you are both Fallen.” It wasn't a lie. Not exactly.

Crowley’s face cleared instantly. His lips twitched. “D’you think that all demons were bosom buddies with the Morningstar himself? You know there are nearly as many of us as there are of you, right? And I'm pretty low down on the totem pole." 

Perhaps Aziraphale should've realized then, but he didn't: he just pressed his lips together, taking the ribbing with as much nonplussed Grace as possible. “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat and studied his hands, clasped together on top of the table. “You mean to tell me that all you did was associate with the wrong people?”

There was a pronounced silence. When Aziraphale dared to sneak a look at the demon from the corner of his eye, he saw something like panic flickering across Crowley’s face. As soon as he realized Aziraphale was looking, the expression was replaced with a smirk. 

“If you’re worrying about The Arrangement again, don’t,” he said, all bravado. “It’s not the same thing at all. Bessssides, it was a long time ago. I’m sure there was more to it than hanging out with the wrong crowd.” 

Aziraphale thought it probably wasn’t the sort of thing you forgot, but he didn’t protest. It seemed to him that pushing for more details was a good way to lose Crowley’s company for another century or two, and he didn’t feel like being left alone just now.

“I’m sure you’re right, my dear,” he said instead. 

Crowley’s posture relaxed and he grinned, already waving the barmaid back over. "Another round, angel?” 

*

Aziraphale finally put it all together on a wet, frigid night in 1986. He was walking home, too caught up in his thoughts to notice the rain soaking into his jacket. It was only a few blocks away anyway, and it wasn’t as though an angel could catch cold. No reason to waste a miracle.

Aziraphale stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. For the first time in almost two hundred years, he wasn’t comforted by the idea of returning to the bookshop. It would be so quiet and empty. He didn’t think he could bear it. Across the street, he spotted the gold lettering of a pub sign with a multicolored flag hanging in the window. Before he could overthink it, Aziraphale crossed the street and pushed open the green-painted door, ducking inside.

The bar was unusually empty--even Aziraphale, with his limited experience of public drinking establishments--could tell that. Admittedly, a rainy Monday night wasn’t the ideal time to go out on the town, but there was more to it than that. Aziraphale could sense a quiet despair permeating the room, fear and sadness radiating from the few scattered patrons. There was a very tall woman with a bright blue pompadour hairstyle and dramatic makeup perched on the edge of a small stage, conversing quietly with two men at a nearby table. In the cleared space near the stage, four younger humans were dancing halfheartedly to pop music that blasted from a nearby speaker system. There was a red-headed woman sitting on a barstool with her face buried in her hands, an empty whiskey tumbler on the bar in front of her. A few seats down, a middle-aged man was taking shot after shot with a glazed expression on his face. The bartender, rearranging liquor bottles behind the counter, gave Aziraphale a short nod.

Short on options, the angel took a seat at the end of the bar. “A cosmopolitan, if you please.” 

“Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale turned to his right and saw the woman had lifted her head and was staring at him from behind a stylish pair of aviators. 

“What in the blazes are you doing here?” she continued.

“Crowley?” 

The demon bared her teeth at him in an approximation of a grin. "This doesn't seem much like your scene."

"Not much of a scene at all, lately," he murmured. The bartender set a martini glass down in front of him. Aziraphale nodded in thanks, picked up his drink and moved down the bar to sit next to Crowley. She leaned away from him, listing slightly on the barstool and gestured for another drink. 

"My dear, are you quite alright?"

"Bloody brilliant, angel. Humans are dropping like mayflies, and your side calls it a punishment for ssssin."

Aziraphale bit his lip. "We aren't the ones doing this, Crowley."

Crowley didn’t even spare him a glance. She nodded her thanks as the bartender dropped off another round, throwing it back in one swallow. The glass clunked loudly against the wood as she set it back down. “Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. Either way, your lot seem pretty chuffed about it.”

“That doesn’t mean I am,” Aziraphale said sharply. It had been a long time since he’d seen Crowley this antagonistic, and it made his chest ache. “It’s terrible, what’s happening to these humans.”

“Then why don’t you _do_ anything about it?” snapped Crowley, “You’re ‘n angel, right? Perform some of those healing miracles everyone’s always ravin’ about. But lemme guess: those aren’t your insssssstructions?”

“I’ve been specifically told not to heal them,” Aziraphale answered miserably. “But I’ve been doing what I can...keeping them comfortable, going to the funerals. I just came from one, so if you please, my dear, I’m really not in the mood to hear that you think so little of me!”

Crowley slumped against the bar, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. "Oh, come off it. You know perfectly well how I feel about you."

This seemed like dangerous territory, so Aziraphale tried to backtrack. "I don't want to fight with you, Crowley. I'm taking care of the humans as well as I can."

Running a hand through her hair, she sighed. "I know," she said quietly. "It's just so unfair. Is God just in the business of creating and then destroying anything and anyone who doesn't conform to what She wants them to be? I thought that humans weren't going to be ssssubjected to the same _bullshit_ as us!" She gestured expansively at Aziraphale and herself. The bartender reappeared without being summoned and sat an entire bottle of bourbon in front of Crowley. By the time Aziraphale realized she was looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer, she had already poured herself another generous measure.

"I...I don't know," he admitted. 

Crowley hissed out a sigh and downed the drink. “‘Least they get to keep the good memories, along with the bad, eh?” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“The humans,” she arched an eyebrow at him over her sunglasses, “at least they get to keep the good memories from before everything went to shit.” 

A frisson of shock went down Aziraphale’s spine. Of course, he’d suspected as much--for years, even--but to have it confirmed from Crowley’s own mouth was something else entirely. “What do you mean, my dear?”

Crowley’s brow drew together in consternation and she leaned towards Aziraphale, nearly toppling off the stool. It was only Aziraphale’s firm grip on her elbow that kept her from sliding to the floor. She stared down at his hand, mouth hanging open slightly. “Wh--what was I ssssaying?”

“About not having good memories?” Aziraphale reminded her gently, trying not to let his impatience show.

“Yeah! Humans get to keep theirs, but I didn’t. I don’t even know if I _had_ good memories from before. Jussst…” she made the universal gesture for something vanishing, “poof.”

“But…” Aziraphale knew he probably shouldn’t press, but Crowley had always been the only person with whom he could not restrain his curiosity. “I thought you said it happened because you asked too many questions? You remember that.”

The demon lifted her head to stare at him, but her expression was inscrutable through the dark glasses. “Well, yeah, I mean. It’s like the echo of a memory, or a dream that starts to fade as soon as you wake up. Pieced together afterwards, more than anything.” Her lips twisted. “But my first _proper_ memory is, ah, careening downwards into a pool of--of boiling ssssulfur.” 

Aziraphale winced, his hand tightening around her arm, and Crowley’s eyes widened behind the glasses, like she’d only just realized who she was talking to. 

“I, um. I’ve got to be going, angel.” She scrambled gracelessly up from the barstool. “Souls to tempt and wiles to sow, you know how it is.” 

“Crowley, dear, I--” Before he could even formulate a proper protest, she had wrenched her arm free of his grasp and fled into the wet night. Aziraphale frowned, rubbing his temples. He didn’t even notice the bartender approaching him until the man rapped his knuckles on the bartop.

“I hope you ain’t gone and upset Miz Tony,” he said in a voice that was almost a growl.

Aziraphale blinked in surprise. “You know, erm, Tony?” 

“Everyone ‘round here does, gov. The lezzies are ‘bout the only ones who’ll look after the fellas what’re sick. Brings food ‘n’ medicine, goes to their houses, or even to hospital, sometimes. She’s an angel.” 

Aziraphale sighed again. He was, perhaps, less surprised by this information than he ought to be. “Yes. It certainly sounds like she is.” 

*

Angels have long memories, and time doesn’t remove detail and color from those remembrances: doesn’t fade or mutate things the way the human mind does. It has to be that way, being immortal as they are. It simply wouldn’t do for them to have that human limitation. But in that moment, standing in the center of the ring of Stonehenge, as Aziraphale’s thoughts flew back through the ages, he wished he could forget the whole thing. But he couldn’t, and now that knowledge might be the only thing that could save them all.

He just hoped Crowley could forgive him for the omission. 

“Crowley, dearest, I’m afraid there’s something I have to tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raphael is not considered a canoncial archangel by all of the branches of the Abrahamic religions, but he does show up in some form or fashion in all three. The most notable occasion being in the deuterocanonical book of Tobit. Generally, he is associated with healing, protection, travelers, and happy meetings. Interestingly, in the Talmud, Raphael is the angel who rescues Lot from the destruction of Sodom. But my favorite bit of trivia about Raphael comes from John Milton's _Paradise Lost_ , where Raphael is tasked with warning Adam not to eat from The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. In my head, since our Raphael Fell, he just approached that conversation a _little_ differently!
> 
> Mount Nebo in Jordan is mentioned in both the Tanakh and the book of Deuteronomy as the place where the prophet Moses was granted a view of the Promised Land just before his death. He's buried there, according to legend. The Bible says Moses was not permitted to enter the Promised Land with the rest of the Israelites because he was once instructed by God to speak to a stone to bring forth water, but instead he struck it with a staff to perform the miracle. Growing up religious, it always struck me as an overly harsh punishment in a life that was entirely dedicated to his God. So Crowley's rant is a little autobiographical. 
> 
> The Spanish Inquisition was established in 1478 and disbanded in 1834, though it had more or less died down by the end of the 17th century. Between 3,000 and 5,000 people were executed during the Inquisition, and the bloodiest parts of its history mostly involved the Barcelona Tribunal. It's mentioned in the novel that Crowley received a commendation for the Spanish Inquisition and went to see what it was all about. He was so upset by what was happening that he drank himself halfway to discorporation. 
> 
> Sangria has been around since the late-Middle Ages as an alternative to poor-quality drinking water. I figure Crowley was something of an early adopter, but poor Aziraphale was a century or two late to the game, at least compared to the Spanish. Sangria wasn't actually popularized in America until the 1964 World's Fair, so some of us were even further behind the curve!
> 
> Most of my information about the 1980s and the AIDS crisis comes from being a queer millennial listening to first-hand accounts from older members of the community, but I did a little research for this fic because I'm an American. There was a cultural difference in how the initial crisis was handled in the UK, from what I understand--there was quite a bit more support from the government and medical community. Even so, there were tons of gay men dying, and people were still afraid and misinformation was rampant so, just like in the United States, the people who took the lion's share of the work of tending to the ill were lesbians and trans women.


	8. One Hour Until The Second Go-Round at Armageddon, Stonehenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some canon-typical violence in this chapter!

"What do you remember about your Fall?" Aziraphale asked as gently as he possibly could.

Whatever Crowley had been expecting, it wasn't that. His eyes flashed. "What? You really want to talk about this  _ right now _ ?"

"You don't remember much of Heaven, do you? You've said so before: that it's all just vague impressions or random details?"

"Is there a point to this, angel?" Crowley looked angry and, even worse, hurt. Aziraphale's heart clenched in his chest. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we don't have a lot of time."

"The Almighty took your name, didn't She? When you Fell, you lost the memory of who you were before. And I'd hazard a guess that if any other demons remembered, they probably weren't in a hurry to tell you."

Crowley hissed in frustration. He was starting to look afraid on top of everything else. "No, I don't remember, but I don't see what that has to do with anything!" 

"You never thought it odd that you were such a low-level demon? Crowley, you can stop time!"

"So can Adam!" Crowley cried, gesturing to the white space around them. "I don't understand what you're getting at here, angel."

"I remember who you were," Aziraphale said and all the color drained from Crowley's face. 

"Angel--" he croaked, but Aziraphale talked over him.

"You were the archangel Raphael."

At the sound of his old name spoken aloud, Crowley staggered and fell to his knees, black wings flaring out behind him. His eyes widened, the sclera vanishing, and he clutched his head, howling in pain.

Aziraphale rushed to his side-- of course he did, how could he not-- but as soon as he tried reassuring Crowley with a soft touch to his shoulder, he flinched away. Aziraphale let go hastily. The pain seemed to have vanished as quickly as it came, and Crowley was left sitting on his heels, staring into the middle distance.

"I remember," he said hollowly. "I didn't even know I'd forgotten."

"Oh, I'm sorry my love" Aziraphale reached towards Crowley again, but his yellow eyes flicked nervously to the angel's outstretched hand. Aziraphale stopped, mid-motion. For a long moment, they stared at each other in complete silence.

Adam materialized at Aziraphale's side. "Are you about done here? I don't know how much longer I can keep this up."

Crowley's eyes shifted to Adam and he nodded, a grim expression on his face. He climbed gingerly to his feet. "Whenever you're ready."

With a reality-breaking pop, the three of them reappeared on the field of battle, and time started up again. Aziraphale saw the demons on the ground rushing forward, the angels in the air diving down. He saw Shadwell heft up the Thundergun of Witchfinder Colonel Dalrymple as Anathema traced shapes in the air, preparing what looked like an exorcism. Tracy brandished her torch like a club, and Newt fired off a crossbow bolt into the churning mass of demons. The Them were all clutching their magical weapons, fear apparent in all eyes except Adam’s. His were squeezed tightly shut as he summoned whatever infernal power was still at his command. They were ready to fight, even with the knowledge that they were going to lose.

Crowley shot up into the sky like a black and orange rocket. He called out in a booming voice: "Lucifer, I challenge you!"

For a split-second, Aziraphale thought time had stopped again. Angels, demons, and humans alike, they all froze at the sound of Crowley's voice.

Gabriel was the first to recover. He laughed, disbelief coloring his expression. "You really think we're going to stay our weapons for some ego-driven demon scuffle. You--"

"Quiet!" Lucifer's voice was sharp, barbed like a whip. "I will not defer to  _ angels _ on how to handle traitors."

Gabriel didn't respond and, when Aziraphale looked, he saw fear on the archangel's face.

Lucifer flew towards Crowley, every beat of his wings like the stirring of an incoming hurricane. It took every ounce of Aziraphale's self-control not to fly immediately to his partner's defense.

"You wish to challenge me, you wretched creature? Very well, but do not expect mercy."

Crowley's mouth twitched. "From you? I wouldn't dare."

"I will take great pleasure in your extinction, Serpent of Eden." He turned his vacant green eyes on the other angels still in the sky. "Stand down."

Gabriel's jaw ticked, but he gave a curt nod and the heavenly host drifted down to the Earth. Aziraphale looked at all the angels and demons surrounding them, staring up at the two entities circling through the air overhead. His stomach churned. 

Lucifer and Crowley collided, crashing together like two boulders, and lightning danced across the sky. They grappled with each other for a moment and then broke apart. Crowley hissed, showing his fangs as he dodged out of the way of a ball of fire flung from Lucifer's hand.  The fire crashed to the ground, instantly immolating some demons unfortunate enough to be in its path. Aziraphale reflexively threw up his wings to protect the humans huddled around him. His heart thudded in his throat as he turned his eyes back to the battle in the sky.

Crowley hurled a bolt of lightning at the Devil, but he evaded it, diving low and grabbing a glossy, black wing with both hands. He fisted his hands around the radius and wrenched. Crowley yelped, struggling to get away. Lucifer yanked even harder on the wing, and there was a noise like a gunshot. Crowley screamed in agony, kicking wildly--his foot connecting with the devil's face, and giving him the opportunity to break free.

Crowley dropped several feet, his injured wing flapping pathetically before he regained his equilibrium. But the delay was too much and Lucifer's next attack-- a blinding beam of white light-- hit him square in the chest. He plummeted towards the Earth, like a stone-struck bird, and hit the ground with a sickening thud.

It was all Aziraphale could do to keep from running to his side, but he knew he couldn’t interfere in the challenge. He was shaking uncontrollably when Tracy took his hand. "He’s still fighting, dearie. Look."

Sure enough, Crowley was moving, arduously picking himself up from the ground. One of his wings was bent at a sickening angle, there were burns on his arms and neck, and blood smeared across his face, but he was standing.

Lucifer dove down, eyes alight with malice. Blood dripped from his nose, but he otherwise seemed uninjured. "Foolish to think you could defeat me, Crowley, suicidal to try. All this for a useless angel and these worthless humans?"

Crowley flashed him a bloody grin. "I don't expect you to understand. But it's not over yet."

Satan laughed, a horrible thunderous sound. "You cannot defeat me! I am the most powerful being in Hell!"

"You were," Crowley agreed, "before I remembered some personal history." He spread his arms and Lucifer's eyes widened. 

Aziraphale realized immediately what was about to happen. "Close your eyes!" he cried, wrapping his wings around the humans. "Whatever you do, do not open them!"

It was like a supernova. Crowley was engulfed in a light so blinding that even Aziraphale, for all his celestial powers, lost sight of his form. Wind whipped around them, flinging through the air the angels and demons who had not had the foresight to brace themselves. Aziraphale sheltered the humans as the wind grew more powerful and the glowing ball of light that was Crowley lifted off the ground and rose into the sky.

The true forms of celestial beings are beyond the scope of human comprehension. In fact, a human cannot look at an angel's true form without running the risk of their mind’s destruction. As Fallen angels, demons' true forms share many traits with their angelic counterparts’. This was why Aziraphale had warned the humans: to avoid their eyes, and their minds from being burned beyond saving. But if they could have looked upon it, they would have described Crowley's true form thusly:

He had six sets of wings, the color and sheen of obsidian: two at his ankles, and four on his back, one of which was still twisted unnaturally and flapping off-beat from the others. Hundreds of glowing yellow eyes blinked opened across the coverts of his wings. Like Lucifer, his halo was broken in two, the jagged edges jutting up from his hair like horns, and there were smashed golden remnants tangled in his long copper hair. It was nearly impossible to make out the shape of his body, for he was wreathed entirely in white-hot flames, but the black snake tail coiled around one of his legs was clearly visible. His face, too, was mostly obscured-- one set of his wings was clearly meant to cover it-- but with his injured wing, it was only partly concealed. Aziraphale could make out the sunshine-yellow glimmer of multiple pairs of eyes, the impression of fangs and scales, but not much else. 

He was terrifying and beautiful, and Aziraphale loved him so much that his heart ached with it.

Lucifer gave a horrible shriek that sent chills down Aziraphale’s spine and had all the humans cowering against him. He rocketed up into the air and, with another blinding explosion, he too had transfigured into his true form. It wasn’t too far a transformation from how he had appeared earlier: two more sets of wings burst forth and a column of black flame licked up around his body, but Aziraphale noted the way his halo warped and curved into wickedly sharp horns, and how his feet became cloven as remorseless green eyes flashed open all over his body.

**“WHAT YOU WERE DOES NOT MATTER,”** Satan intoned.  **“YOU ARE NOTHING AND WILL BE LESS THAN NOTHING WHEN I AM FINISHED WITH YOU.”**

Aziraphale saw the flash of what might be a smirk cross Crowley’s incomprehensible face.  **“BRING IT ON.”**

The fighting became hard to follow, more meta than physical, and the speed with which the two demons moved was astounding. Still, Aziraphale kept his eyes trained on them, heart pounding in his ears. Crowley was fighting as hard as he could, but his injured wing was clearly holding him back. Aziraphale had never doubted Crowley, but fear started to creep into his heart. Lucifer was simply too fast, pummeling him with attack after bruising attack. After a particularly brutal impact sent Crowley careening through the air, Aziraphale let out a pained gasp and, seconds later, he felt Pepper move from beneath his wing. When he looked down, he saw her staring up at the battle, eyes wide, with bloody tears running rivulets down her cheeks. 

“Don’t look!” Aziraphale pulled her back and she turned to face him, fear and anger in her expression. 

“He’s losing! You have to help him!” 

“I can’t,” Aziraphale cried, though his whole body longed to do exactly as she said. “It will jeopardize everything!”

“Then give him something that will help him win!” She thrust the flaming sword into his hands.

As soon as his hand closed around the grip, it flared to life as though recognizing his touch. Power surged through his corporation. Just then, Crowley crashed to the ground at his feet and he was forced to whip Pepper back under his wing to shield her from the flames.

“Crowley!” he exclaimed, tears springing to his eyes. “You simply mustn’t give up.”

The demon shuddered and dragged himself upright. Lucifer watched from the sky, confident enough in his victory to pause his attack.  **“I’M TRYING.”**

Aziraphale thrust the sword towards him, pommel first. “Take this. You’re going to win.”

Crowley’s clawed fingers closed around the sword. His entire frame started to vibrate at a high frequency.  **“I WILL.”**

**“COME NOW, SERPENT OF EDEN. YOUR DESTRUCTION WILL BE SWIFT.”**

Crowley spun on his heel and shot into the air, his damaged wing folding in protest. But it wasn’t enough to stop his momentum and he hurtled towards Lucifer at the speed of sound. Satan raised an arm to rain down another blow, only spotting the blade as Crowley struck, mamba-quick, sinking it into his center mass. Lucifer gasped in surprise, the fire around him flaring as Crowley forced the blade as deep as it would go. Green eyes widened in horror and Lucifer fumbled for the sword’s grip as his flames extinguished and his essence began to dissipate. 

**“PRIDE GOESSS BEFORE THE FALL,”** Crowley hissed.  **“I WOULD HAVE THOUGHT YOU’D LEARNT THAT BY NOW.”** He wrenched the sword free of Lucifer’s form and, for a moment, the Devil was suspended, motionless, in the air. Then Lucifer fell. His body hit the ground at the dead center of Stonehenge’s circle and slowly crumbled to ash. The iron crown that had once been on his brow appeared on Crowley’s, nestled into his red curls.

There has never been a silence so absolute as there was that day. The angels and demons all stared in shock, first at Lucifer’s disintegrating form, then at the demon responsible.

Crowley sank back to the ground, standing in front of Aziraphale and the humans, directly between the two factions. He turned to face the denizens of Hell.  **“AS IS MY RIGHT, I CLAIM FULL DOMINION OVER HELL. DOES ANYONE OPPOSE ME?”**

No one spoke. Even the angels, on the other side of the circle, seemed at a loss for words. Beelzebub stepped forward, and dropped to a knee. “All hail Lord Crowley.”

“All hail Lord Crowley!” echoed the hoard, all dropping to their knees in unison. “The true ruler of Hell!”

**“RETURN TO HELL AND AWAIT MY INSTRUCTIONS.”** Crowley commanded. Even though he had just watched the demons swear fealty to Crowley, it still sent a shock through Aziraphale’s system to watch them obey him, all ten million vanishing back into the chasm within a matter of moments.

“This cannot be happening,” Gabriel muttered, “This  _ can’t _ be happening.” 

Crowley rounded on him, and he flinched away. Michael rolled their eyes. 

**“THERE WILL BE NO APOCALYPSE TODAY.”**

“Whyever not?” asked Michael, in a bored tone.

**“HELL FOLLOWS MY RULES NOW, AND THEY WILL NOT FIGHT ALONGSIDE HEAVEN.”**

“Then perhaps we can fight against one another, as was the original plan,” Uriel put in.

Crowley spread his wings wide and the sky grew dark.  **“HEAR ME NOW. I AM CROWLEY, LORD OF HELL, AND FORMER ARCHANGEL OF HEALING AND GUARDIANSHIP, RAPHAEL. EARTH IS UNDER MY PROTECTION. ANYONE WHO ATTEMPTS TO HARM IT WILL FACE THE FULL WRATH AND MIGHT OF HELL’S ARMIES.”** He shuddered in pain at evoking his old name, and spat black ichor at Gabriel’s feet.

Michael and Uriel both stepped back, clearly not as eager for a fight as they appeared. They glanced at Gabriel, whose face was slowly turning red. He raked a shaking hand through his hair. It was clear that Crowley had called the angels’ bluff. He looked more flustered than Aziraphale had ever seen him. 

“Fine!” he exclaimed. “You’re so determined to keep this stupid rock afloat? It’s yours! I’m  _ done _ !” He swept a hand through the air and with a faint chime, the angels, too, were gone.

Crowley’s shoulders slumped and with the whoosh of rushing wind, he was in his preferred form once again. His wings vanished into another plane, but not before Aziraphale could see that one was still badly injured. There were cuts, burns, and bruises all over his body. He turned to look at the humans with tired yellow eyes. “Everybody alright?”

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale started forward, but as soon as he did, the demon took two staggering steps back. He stopped. “Will you let me look at that wing, dearest?”

Crowley shook his head, swaying on his feet. “So how, uh, how did you figure out that I was...Raphael?” His face spasmed in pain and he spat more blood onto the dusty ground.

Aziraphale hesitated. This was what he had been dreading. “I’m not sure what you mean, my dear.” 

“Something must’ve given you the clue you needed,” Crowley snapped, starting to get agitated. “It’s not like you just  _ knew _ .” 

Aziraphale didn’t respond. His stomach dropped, and a cold sweat broke out over his brow. 

Crowley froze, eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s. “You did know. For how long?” 

Aziraphale wrung his hands. It took him several tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. “Since the first time we met.”

It was difficult to watch what Crowley’s face did then; it looked an awful lot like what he’d described Falling as feeling like, all those centuries ago. “Ah.” 

“I--I didn’t realize at first that you didn’t know, so I assumed you didn’t want to discuss it. And then it was too late to say anything without it being awkward--”

“I understand,” Crowley interrupted. “No--no, it’s fine. I’m fine.” 

He didn’t  _ look  _ fine, and Aziraphale was of a mind to say so, only when he took another step towards Crowley, the demon stumbled back so quickly he nearly tripped over a rock. 

“I think I’m just gonna...loads to do in Hell now, I’m afraid,” he stammered. “You know how it is, promotions always do come with new job duties, so.” He lifted his hand, fingers pressed together.

“Crowley, wait!” Aziraphale cried, but it was too late. With a snap the sky had cleared. The chasm in the ground was gone, Lucifer’s ashes were gone.

And Crowley. He was gone too. 


	9. Two Weeks After The Second Failed Go-Round at Armageddon, Soho

The ring of the shop bell pulled Aziraphale abruptly from his thoughts. Through a gap in the shelves, he glimpsed a black-suited man sauntering towards the counter. The angel lurched up from his chair and hurried around the corner, hope rising in his chest.

The fellow brightened at his approach. He was tall and fit, with a pair of expensive sunglasses pushed up into his dark hair. He grinned cheerily, offering a handshake. "Hullo! You must be the owner. I thought this place had closed permanently; you've been gone for ages!"

Disappointment welled up in Aziraphale's throat, thick and cloying. He swallowed past it and gave the gentleman an insincere smile. With a discreet snap of his fingers, the sign on the door flipped from from OPEN to CLOSED of its own accord. 

"As you can see, we are, in fact, closed," he said, taking the man firmly by the elbow and steering him towards the door. "Terribly sorry."

"Wait, but--"

"I suggest you try the Waterstones on Tottenham Court," Aziraphale said briskly, giving him a gentle push out into the street and slamming the door in his face. He pulled the shade over the window, turned the lock and pressed his forehead to the smooth wood of the door with a sigh.

It had been two weeks since the second Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, since Crowley had defeated Lucifer and disappeared off the face of the Earth. To say it had been the longest two weeks of Aziraphale’s life would be a gross understatement, which was really saying something for an immortal being who had been alive for over six thousand years. 

At first, he had thought to give Crowley some space. He had, in essence, lied to his partner for several millennia--or at the very least, neglected to mention critical information. It was not unreasonable for Crowley to be upset with him. So the angel had allowed himself to be shepherded into Newt’s car and taken back to London. He had refused to let anyone touch the Bentley, miracling it back to its garage in South Downs. Aziraphale wasn't even sure how the children had gotten home, too caught up in his own misery over Crowley's vanishing act. He simply couldn’t bear the thought of returning to the cottage-- their cottage-- without Crowley, so he’d gone instead to the bookshop and waited. 

But Crowley hadn’t returned. This was something Aziraphale had never anticipated. He could admit, there had been many times over the years when he had treated Crowley unfairly, or done something to make the demon angry with him-- making him wait six-thousand years to know his love was reciprocated not the least of these-- but Crowley had forgiven him. Always. Aziraphale knew he would hate to hear it, but the fact of the matter was that Crowley was the most forgiving person Aziraphale knew-- at least where the angel was concerned. The idea that he might have finally done something that even Crowley could not forgive ate at him. So he sat alone in his bookshop and wondered if this was how he was to spend the rest of eternity.

Aziraphale returned to his desk in the back room, footfalls as heavy as his heart. He had been attempting to pass the time with a reread of Ovid’s  _ Metamorphoses _ . Crowley had gifted him with all fifteen books in the form of a beautifully illuminated manuscript sometime in the eleventh century. He suspected that it had been stolen from a convent, but had been too covetous of the gift to even think of returning it. And now it was the only thing keeping him from slowly losing his mind while he hoped and prayed for Crowley’s return. Ignoring the tears that were pricking at the corners of his eyes, Aziraphale gently turned the yellowing pages and picked up where he had left off, at the beginning of book ten.

_ When Orpheus, poet of Rhodope, had mourned for her, greatly, in the upper world, he dared to go down to Styx, through the gate of Taenarus, to see if he might not also move the dead. _

Aziraphale paused. He traced a gloved finger over the lettering, painstakingly drawn in silver and black ink. Quite suddenly, a thought occurred to him. He stood abruptly, knocking his chair over in his haste. He peeled off his gloves, dropped them on the desk, and turned to get his coat.

Crowley wasn't coming back, and Aziraphale knew now that he simply couldn't go on without him. There was only one thing to do. Aziraphale would go down to Hell himself, and bring his demon back.

How difficult could it be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ovid was a poet and contemporary of Virgil. His magnum opus, Metamorphoses, is a fifteen-book epic chronicling the history of the world from the Creation to the deification of Julius Caesar. It's hugely influential within literature, inspiring people like Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Dante. Book ten, which Az is reading in this chapter, begins with the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. I was working with A.S. Kline's translation, which can be found in full [here](https://ovid.lib.virginia.edu/trans/Metamorph10.htm). I took some liberties with the phraseology. 
> 
> The illuminated manuscript copy that Aziraphale owns is based off the Neopolitan Ovid; one of the oldest known complete copies of Metamorphoses. It belongs to the National Library in Naples, and, to my delight, can be found in its entirety [here](https://www.wdl.org/en/item/4524/view/1/124/). I've linked it open to the myth in question.


	10. Two Weeks After The Second Failed Go-Round at Armageddon, The Gates of Hell

As an ethereal being, Aziraphale didn't doubt that he could suss out an entrance to Hell anywhere in the world, but that method would take time. Fortunately, he already knew of one such entrance. 

At the center of London in a tall, nondescript office building, were the main entrances to Heaven and Hell on Earth. It had probably made sense to whomever had designed the building there, considering that the two occult/ethereal representatives on the planet had both been stationed in London for several centuries by the time it was built. Aziraphale had often wondered at Gabriel's continued belief that he and Crowley had never physically crossed paths when they had to enter the same building to check in with their respective home offices. Common sense had never been a real strength of Upstairs, he could admit that now.

Aziraphale pushed through the front door of the building and was greeted by a blast of just slightly too-cold air-conditioning. (That had been one of Crowley's-- offices running the air a few degrees too low. It had backfired rather spectacularly: Crowley was cold-blooded and, as a result, always ended up freezing when he went into commercial buildings, the poor dear.)

The atrium was just as he remembered it. Glossy black marble floors, chrome glimmering on the walls and beyond the turnstiles, two sets of escalators: one leading Downstairs on the left, and one that went Upstairs on the right. A sinister green glow came from the ones on the left, pulsing intimidatingly as the angel approached.

Aziraphale had not been conscious the last time he entered Hell, so he was not entirely sure what to expect. There was always the possibility of some sort of anti-angel defense that would keep him from entering. He hoped not; beyond just walking in the front door, he didn't really have a plan.

He approached the escalators with some trepidation, but he needn't have worried; as soon as he set his foot on the first step, the world turned upside down as he sank through the marble tiles and stepped foot onto the true steps to Hell. He blinked and his perspective re-oriented itself. Glancing back as the escalator carried him down, he could see the other escalator’s reflection in the mortal plane moving farther and farther away in his periphery. 

It was a long way down. After several minutes of descent, Aziraphale drew out his pocket-watch to check the time. It was running backwards. With a sigh, he slid it back into his jacket pocket and resigned himself to the ride.

Several minutes later, just as his patience had begun to reach its limits, he finally caught sight of the bottom floor. There was a puddle of something green and viscous by the end of the escalator, too large to avoid. Aziraphale stepped directly into it, wincing as it stuck to the bottom of his wingtips.

"Honestly," he muttered to no one. "They could stand to get a cleaner in here."

The gates of Hell were before him; they looked like the kind of automatic sliding doors one might see at a Tesco. Aziraphale stepped forward out of the puddle, and they slid open.

"Oh! That wasn't so hard." He took another step and the doors snapped shut. "Perhaps I spoke too soon." A third step brought him directly in front of the doors, but they didn't open again. Aziraphale pursed his lips and took a step back.

The doors slid open again.

Aziraphale stepped forward quickly, anticipating what would happen next. Sure enough, the doors began to slide shut again, just as he reached them. Before he could think too much about it, he shoved his hand between them. The doors slammed shut, smashing his fingers painfully. "Ow!"

The doors slid open again and this time, they stayed open. Aziraphale glared at them, but when they made no move to close again, he hurried through, shaking out his injured hand.

Beyond the doors, he found himself in a dimly-lit, overcrowded lobby, demons and wayward souls, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in uncomfortable waiting room chairs that lined the walls. One of the fluorescent lights overhead was flickering unsteadily. The demon sitting closest to wear Aziraphale stood sneezed without covering their face.

A massive, clunky reception desk sat in the center of the room. Dagon, Lord of the Files was perched on a stool behind it, finger-pecking at the keyboard of an Apple 3 desktop computer. A dead philodendron was wilting at her elbow.  She didn't look up as Aziraphale approached. "Take a number, someone will get to you when they get to you."

Aziraphale glanced over at the ticket dispenser. The next ticket on the roll had at least six digits. "Oh, no, I'm afraid this is terribly urgent."

At the sound of his voice, Dagon's head whipped up, lizard-quick. "You! What the Heaven are you doing here?"

"I need to speak to Crowley," Aziraphale said. "It really is quite important."

"ID?" she asked, disinterest clear in her tone.

"I beg your pardon?"

Dagon raised an eyebrow. "I need to see your identification."

"I--I don't have any."

She bared her teeth in an unsympathetic grin. "You're not authorized to go past this point without the proper identification."

Aziraphale frowned. "Oh dear. Is there any sort of temporary ID I can apply for?"

Dagon considered him for a moment. "I do have a form for a 24-hour pass."

"That should do nicely!" 

She went to the file cabinet and kicked it, hard, before pulling open the top drawer. "Drawer sticks," she explained. "Alright, here we are, form 666-A1." 

"Do you have a clipboard?" Aziraphale asked. Dagon stared blankly at him. "A pen, at least?"

The pen she gave him was low on ink, but that was hardly surprising. After scratching in the margins for a few minutes, he was finally able to make it work. He balanced the form on his knee and meticulously filled in all the boxes. The wayward spirit sitting next to him was playing music in their headphones too loudly, but Aziraphale tuned it out and continued working.

When he was finished, he brought the form back to Dagon. "This is meant to be filled out in triplicate," she told him.

"You only gave me one form."

Dagon rolled her eyes and slapped two more copies of the form down on the desk. "Are all angels this whiny?" she wondered.

After Aziraphale filled out the exact same form two more times, he attempted to give them to the Lord of the Files for again.

"What do you want me to do with these? You need to take them to the Office For Temporary Access Passes."

"Where is that, exactly?" Aziraphale asked as politely as he could manage.

"Down that hall, take a left at the sewage cooler, fifth door on the right, next to the Office For Replying-All on Work Emails." 

"Thank you," Aziraphale said, but Dagon didn't respond, already engrossed in whatever she was doing on the computer.

The angel followed the directions down the hall, past an open-plan office space and into a long hallway of closed doors. He knocked on the door for Temporary Access Passes. No one answered. After a few moments, he knocked again. Still no answer.

Aziraphale was preparing to knock on the door a third time when it flew open. "What?!"

"I need to submit a form for a day pass."

The demon in the doorway went pale. "It's you!"

"Yes?" Aziraphale said, confused. He didn't recognize the demon, but they seemed to know Aziraphale's face.

The demon's thick black eyelashes fluttered and the pointed ends of their hair twitched. They looked nervous. "Come in, I suppose."

Aziraphale followed the demon inside and took a seat across from their desk. He slid the forms towards them. "I was told I needed to bring these to you."

The demon picked up the top form and studied it. "Do you have form 666-B4?"

"This is the form to get form B4," Aziraphale clarified.

"Yes, but I need form 666-B4 to complete this form." The demon showed Aziraphale some fine print at the bottom of the document.

"That doesn't make any sense!" Aziraphale cried, "A1 is a form to authorize me to receive form B4!"

The demon looked even more anxious, and Aziraphale realized he was glowing slightly. He pulled it back with an effort. "Look," he said. "What's your name?"

"We are Legion."

"Legion," Aziraphale said warmly. "I don't want to make your job more difficult, but the longer it is before I get the proper form, the longer I have to stay here taking up your valuable time. I think we can both agree that isn't ideal."

"I suppose…" Legion said haltingly, "If you fill out 666-B4 while I've got A1 here on the desk, I can submit them simultaneously."

Aziraphale gave them a beatific smile. "That sounds perfect."

Form 666-B4 was even more convoluted than the previous form had been, but luckily Aziraphale’s years of keeping strict tax records had prepared him for such an eventuality. Just a few minutes later, he had completed the form.

"Now just stand against that wall there and I'll take your picture. No, don't smile. Just stare straight ahead. One...two...oops, I already hit the button," Legion shrugged, squinting down at the camera while Aziraphale blinked the flash spots out of his eyes. "Ehhhh, good enough. Now just let me print your badge."

The printer made a noise like a jet engine starting up and then escalated to a high-pitched whine. "This might take a while," Legion warned.

There was a long uncomfortable silence as the printer whirred in the background. The angel studied a poster on the wall that read HAZARDS HAPPEN, GET OVER IT while Legion looked anywhere but at his face.

"So…" Aziraphale hazarded, "this the only department you work in?"

Legion shook their head. "We go wherever we're needed," they explained. "Having multiple forms makes us useful."

"Quite."

Another uncomfortable pause. "You know, it was nothing personal," Legion said suddenly. "The Hellfire. We were just the delivery person."

"What are you…" Aziraphale stopped himself just in time. "Ah. Yes, well, no one was at their best that day. Water under the bridge and all that."

Legion looked relieved. "Especially since your boyfriend is in charge around here, now."

Aziraphale bit his lip. "Indeed."

Mercifully, the printer chose that moment to spit out the badge with a dying gasp. Legion snatched it up and shoved it hastily into Aziraphale's hands.

"Now that's not valid until you get it notarized," they said, pointing out a small box on the back. "You'll need to go down to the notary counter for a stamp. Costs five euros."

" _ Euros _ ?" Aziraphale said, scandalized. 

"Well, we do also have a chip and pin machine."

"Fantastic," muttered Aziraphale. "Thanks ever so much for your time."

He backed out of the office and the door slammed in his face before he realized he hadn't gotten directions to the notary counter. With a put-upon sigh, Aziraphale began to retrace his steps towards the lobby with the vague idea of asking Dagon for assistance again. It didn't take long for him to get hopelessly turned around.

"Oh blast," he said to himself as he rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a gaudy Hieronymus Bosch-esque statue that he'd seen twice already.

"Lost, angel?" The familiar nickname had him spinning around so quickly he got dizzy. 

The speaker was Legion. When he realized this, Aziraphale's heart fell to his toes. "Oh, you."

"Different us," Legion corrected and, sure enough, they were wearing a blue scarf and a pair of earmuffs. "We realized you left without directions. Figured you might be lost."

"Just so," Aziraphale agreed distractedly.

"It's at the very end of this corridor," Legion said, pointing. "Better get a move on, it closes soon."

Aziraphale hurried down the hallway without a backward glance. It was, perhaps, impolite, but the angel's not-inconsiderable patience was worn thin. The corridor seemed to go on forever, featureless walls on both sides, grimy tile under foot. Aziraphale increased his pace, looking anxiously around for any indication that he was making progress. His footsteps echoed through the air, making it sound like he was being followed.

After what felt like ages, the end of the hallway came into view. A pallid demon was sitting at a desk built into the wall. As soon as he saw Aziraphale, he reached up and started to pull down the security shutter.

"Oh, wait! Please!" Aziraphale rushed forward, but by the time he'd reached the counter, the shutter was fully closed. Through the bars, the demon stared impassively at him. Whatever horrid little creature sat on his head croaked.

"We're closed."

"If I could just have a moment of your time…"

"We're closed," repeated the demon, looking bored.

Aziraphale bristled. "Now see here! You and your, your, your  _ toad-- _ "

The demon scowled, stroking the slimy creature on his head. "It's a dart frog."

"I don't  _ care _ !" Aziraphale snapped, "I'm sorry, but this is a matter of great urgency."

The demon remained unmoved and Aziraphale began to despair. 

"Look, I'll give you three times your regular rate if you just stamp the pass!" 

For the first time, the dart frog demon looked interested. "Four times," he said. "Twenty euros."

"Fine." Aziraphale snapped, miracling the pound notes in his wallet into euros. "Twenty it is."

The demon lifted the shutter and Aziraphale handed him the pass. It took two second for him to examine and apply the notary stamp. Aziraphale couldn't believe he was paying twenty euros for the service, but he handed his money over without complaint. " _ Thank you.  _ Now can you give my directions to, erm, Lord Crowley's…residence?"

Halfway through shuttering his office again, the demon paused. "What d’you want to go there for?"

"That's personal."

The demon shrugged. "He don't take many audiences."

"Just give me the directions," Aziraphale said curtly.

"You'll have to speak to Lord Beelzebub," he answered. "Back down the corridor, through the red double doors on the left, past the hellhound pens and straight down the stairs."

Aziraphale didn't even bother responding, thoroughly fed up with the whole place. He stormed down the hallway, ignoring the way his shoes had become, somehow, both squelchy  _ and _ filled with sand and shoved through the red doors. The hellhounds, barking and snarling in their pens, fell abruptly silent as the angel stomped past. The stairs were slippery and narrow, but Aziraphale simply waved a hand and miracled himself to the bottom.

Beelzebub was sprawled on a tarnished and rotting throne, scrolling absently on a smartphone, a swarm of flies buzzing about their head. When Aziraphale appeared, they sat up, eyes wide.

"What the Heaven are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see Crowley," Aziraphale said firmly.

Beelzebub flopped back in their seat, smirking. "Lord Crowley iszz not taking external appointments at thiszz time," they simpered. "Too bad for you."

Aziraphale grabbed the front of their jacket and hauled them to their feet. "I don't give a  _ fuck  _ if he's taking appointments, you  _ will _ let me see him. Or do I need to remind you that I'm impervious to Hellfire and need no incentive to smite you here and now?"

Beelzebub was a level-headed demon, but it had been quite some time since they'd had this much righteous anger aimed in their direction. They faltered. "He'szz right through there. Leave me out of your lovers’ spat!"

Aziraphale released them and clicked his tongue. "There now," he said with an innocent smile, "that wasn't so difficult, was it?"

*

Aziraphale had been so focused on the trial of getting through Hell, that he hadn't spent much time thinking about what he was going to say once he finally reached Crowley. So when he found himself standing in Hell's throne room, he was quite at a loss for words

"Hello," he wound up saying.

Crowley had been lounging sideways on a bastardized cathedra with his legs kicked over the arm when Aziraphale first entered the room, but when he recognized the angel, he nearly fell out of the chair in his haste to scramble upright. His sunglasses slipped down the edge of his nose and Aziraphale got a glimpse of some unnameable emotion in his eyes before they were shoved back into place.

"Angel…" he frowned. "You're glowing."

Aziraphale looked down at his corporation. Sure enough, a white glow was radiating off his form. "Ah. Terribly sorry." With some effort, he managed to tamp down on his residual irritation. "I simply experienced a little frustration trying to get here."

Crowley's lips twitched like he had started to smile and then thought better of it. "What are you doing here, Aziraphale?"

His voice was so weary that for a moment Aziraphale was taken aback. "I--I came to see you, my dear. You've been gone for a fortnight. I wanted to apologise again for keeping information from you. I really am dreadfully sorry."

This did not have the desired effect of making Crowley look less unhappy. On the contrary, the lines on his face deepened and he let out a long sigh. "Don't worry about it, angel. I'm not upset about that."

Aziraphale cocked his head. "If that's true, then why haven't you come home?"

Crowley looked away. "I don't think I should."

"Whyever not?" demanded Aziraphale. "If you aren't angry with me for how I've handled you being Raphael--"

"I'm not, though," Crowley cut in, "am I?"

"Not what? Angry?"

"Not...an archangel. I haven't been in a long time." 

"Why should that matter?" Aziraphale asked, nonplussed.

Crowley sprang to his feet. "Because!" he exclaimed, as if that explained anything.

"Darling, you've lost me."

He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. "You recognized me the first time you met me."

"Yes," agreed Aziraphale.

"But I'm not that person! I haven't been that person since before we knew each other!"

"Right," Aziraphale said, though he felt more lost than ever.

"So you see why this doesn't work?"

"Crowley," Aziraphale said gently. He took a few steps forward and grabbed the demon's trembling hands in his own. "Dearest, what are you talking about?"

Crowley was silent for a long moment, staring down at where their hands were joined. When he looked back up, his expression was stony. "In the Garden. When I came to you...did you only talk to me because I used to be Raphael?" 

Whatever Aziraphale had been expecting, it wasn't that. He flinched back, only failing in retracting his hands because of how Crowley's grip had tightened in response to the pain of uttering his celestial name. "Of course not! I spoke to you because you spoke to me. And... because you were the first person who ever listened to me."

"I'm not them, angel, I can never be them. And I don't  _ want  _ to be." The words poured out like Crowley was no longer able to contain them. "If you kept sticking around because of who I used to be, I'm only going to disappoint you--"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale cried, dismayed. He cradled his demon's face in his hands. "You could never disappoint me. I love  _ you _ . And not because of some title you had in another life, because of who you are right now."

"You really don't care who I used to be?" His voice was so small, it broke Aziraphale's heart.

“Oh, my love. Haven’t you heard? You don’t need Heaven or Hell to tell you who you are.” 

Crowley surged forward with a broken noise and crushed their lips together. There was a little blood in his mouth, but Aziraphale didn't care--though he ached from Crowley to never again have to say that old, cursed name. He wrapped his arms around him and tried to pour all the love he felt for this extraordinary being into their kiss.

When they broke apart, Crowley quirked an eyebrow at him. "You worked your way through all that red tape to see me?"

"More or less," Aziraphale blushed.

Crowley's lips curled. "More or less?"

"I may've offered a notary extra monetary compensation to keep his office open long enough to do business," the angel allowed.

"And?"

Aziraphale sniffed. "Perhaps Beelzebub required some...encouragement to grant me an audience, but otherwise it was all above-board."

Crowley threw his head back and laughed. "You bastard," he said fondly. He brushed his knuckles gently along Aziraphale's cheekbone. "I'm sorry I doubted you, angel."

"I don't need you to apologise, dearest. I just need you to come back home with me."

Crowley kissed the corner of his mouth and smiled. "I think that can be arranged.


	11. Epilogue

It comes as no surprise to the astute reader that things changed rather significantly in Hell with the introduction of new leadership. After all, changing management after six-thousand years is quite the undertaking. Particularly when the old boss was the original author of misery and hatred, and the new one has never been very good at either of those things.

All that is to say that under Crowley's rule Hell changed for the better. Gone were the days of possession, torture, and trickery. Demons learned to ask the right questions, to provide humans with the knowledge they needed to make their choices. Simply to offer  _ a choice  _ and let humanity take it from there. 

And in a cottage in the South Downs, an angel and a demon choose each other again and again, every single day. Call it ineffable, inevitable, whatever you like, but it's My opinion that the freedom to make these choices makes all the difference in the world.


End file.
